UC-NRLF 


SANTA     CRUZ 


Jfrom  an  flDregon 


FROM  AN  OREGON 

*    RANCH    * 


BY 

"KATHARINE" 


Decorations  by 
J.  Allen  St.  John 


CHICAGO 
A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO. 

1916 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 
1905  and  1916 


W.  F.  HALL  PRINTING  COMPANY,  CHICAGO 


ps 

353 


PI 


"  J\/fORNING  and  evening  the  hills  throw  ^vel- 
J.VA  come  shadows;  in  the  valleys  are  sun-warmed 
gaps,  while  far  and  wide  stretches  a  lovely  landscape 
in  zvhich  the  tracks  of  animals  are  seen  oftener  than 
those  of  men.  Deep  and  undisturbed  silence  reigns 
everyzvhere,  only  broken  now  and  then  by  the  murmur 
of  falling  waters,  the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  songs 
of  birds." 

From  "  My  Study  Fire,"  Hamilton  W.  Mabie. 


From  An  Oregon 
Ranch 


'OU  write,  my  dear  Nell,  that  you  were 
amazed  to  hear  we  had  sold  our 
comfortable  city  homes,  bundled  our 
household  possessions  into  a  freight 
car,  and  whirled  off  to  Oregon  with 
foolish  and  pastoral  notion  of  locating  on 
ranches;  and  thereupon  you  had  indignantly  re- 
marked, "The  whole  quartet  must  be  as  mad  as 
March  hares  to  do  such  a  reckless  thing  at  their  time 
of  life."  The  allusion  to  lunacy  may  be  forgiven; 
to  age,  never.  We  may  not  be  so  young  as  we  used 
to  be,  but  we  are  not  yet  quite  in  our  dotage.  Don't 


Jfrom  an  flDregon  Katuft 

you  know,  my  friend,  that  monotony  is  stagnation 
and  death  to  the  middle-aged?  They  need  change 
of  scene,  and  the  novelty  and  excitement  that  come 
with  it.  The  tonic  of  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new 
is  both  stimulating  and  rejuvenating,  and  the  Ore- 
gon air  is  an  intoxicant  like  wine  —  pure,  fresh,  and 
exhilarating.  We  drank  it  in  with  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 

You  ask  if  we  have  found  our  ranch.  I  answer, 
Yes.  Do  we  like  it?  We  are  delighted  with  it. 
How  did  we  find  it  ?  It  happened  rather  strangely. 
Last  summer,  in  a  purely  accidental  way,  there 
drifted  to  us  a  little  pamphlet  from  a  real  estate 
agent,  in  which  we  learned  more  than  we  had  ever 
known  of  the  beauties  and  attractions  of  Oregon. 
We  read  of  her  glorious  snow-capped  mountains,  of 
great  dim  forests,  of  sparkling  trout-laden  streams, 
of  wooded  hills  and  blossoming  valleys,  swiftly 
flowing  rivers,  and  fern-shaded  springs  of  delicious 
cold  water  gushing  from  rock  and  hillside.  From 
that  hour  the  madness  was  in  our  blood.  We  said, 
Let  us  act  at  once,  and  not  stand  shivering  on  the 
brink.  And  so  the  leap  into  the  unknown  was  taken, 
landing  us  in  a  small  town  here  in  the  height  of  the 
rainy  season.  Then,  "under  skies  that  were  ashen 
and  sober/'  in  prosy  fact  as  well  as  poetic  figure, 
began  the  search  for  our  new  homes.  It  was  like 
searching  for  the  Golden  Fleece. 

In  response  to  an  inquiry  concerning  real  estate 

[2] 


jfrom  an  SDregon 

agents  —  strange  coincidence!  —  the  first  name  sug- 
gested was  one  already  familiar  to  us  as  the  author 
of  the  little  book  whose  beguiling  eloquence  had  led 
us  across  mountains,  plains,  and  desert  to  the  prom- 
ised land.  Under  his  monitions  we  at  once  took 
possession  of  the  only  vacant  house  in  the  town  —  a 
small  leaky-roofed  cottage  in  an  advanced  state  of 
decay  —  unpacked  a  few  goods,  merely  enough  with 
which  to  do  "light  housekeeping,"  while  our  lords 
were  searching  for  the  new  Arcadia.  Day  after 
day  they  went  forth,  clad  in  brand-new  glistening 
rubber  suits,  almost  as  hideous  as  a  diver's  outfit, 
we  tossing  old  shoes  after  them  for  luck.  Night 
invariably  brought  them  home,  tired,  hungry,  and 
disappointed.  There  was  always  something  wrong 
with  the  places  they  had  seen:  the  ranches  were 
either  too  large  or  too  small;  not  enough  tillable 
land,  or  too  much  tillable  land  and  a  scarcity  of 
timber ;  either  no  water  on  the  place,  or  a  deluge  of 
it,  submerging  a  good  portion  of  the  estate.  So  it 
went  on  day  after  day,  week  in  and  week  out,  until 
we  began  to  compare  ourselves  to  M'artin  Chuzzlewit 
and  Mark  Tapley  in  search  of  their  Eden  in  the 
Indiana  swamps. 

But  at  last,  one  glad  day,  capricious  Fate,  relent- 
ing, led  our  brave  scouts  straight  up  the  green  and 
shining  hills  of  Paradise  into  the  country  of  the 
Pointed  Firs,  where  in  a  little  emerald  basin  they 
found  the  enchanted  land.  The  place  was  large 

[3] 


JFrom  an  Oregon 

enough  to  be  divided  into  two  ranches,  each  pro- 
vided with  both  tillable  and  wood  land.  There  was 
great  rejoicing,  a  hurrying  to  and  fro,  a  hasty 
repacking  of  goods,  and  much  searching  for  means 
of  their  transportation.  It  was  difficult  to  find  men 
willing  to  brave  the  horrors  of  the  mountain  roads 
with  loaded  wagons  during  the  rainy  season.  But 
after  a  delay  of  two  days,  three  men  with  teams 
reluctantly  consented  to  come  to  our  rescue,  which 
they  did,  but  bringing  no  tarpaulin  or  any  kind  of 
protection  for  our  goods.  We  had  one  outfit  of  our 
own;  and  when  the  four  wagons  pulled  out,  Mary 
and  I  could  not  but  look  a  bit  regretfully  after  our 
household  treasures,  exposed  to  both  rain  and  mud 
during  a  drive  of  twenty  miles.  Owing  to  the 
almost  impassable  condition  of  the  roads,  only  light 
loads  could  be  taken;  consequently  eight  long  days 
were  spent  in  this  herculean  task. 

The  men  drove  up  one  day  and  back  the  next, 
passing  the  intervening  night  in  the  old  deserted 
home.  Finally  came  the  glad  morning  of  our 
release  from  the  leaky,  dismal,  and  now  plundered 
cottage.  The  last  load  was  vanishing  down  the 
street.  At  the  door  stood  our  newly  acquired  surrey 
—  a  second-hand  one,  a  queer  looking  old  thing,  not 
unlike  a  palanquin  on  wheels.  It  was  loaded  to  the 
guards.  As  we  stowed  ourselves  away  within  its 
gloomy  interior,  the  school  children,  at  the  risk  of 
tardy  marks,  halted  to  witness  the  imposing  start, 

[4] 


Jfrom 

nudging  one  another  and  giggling  furtively  at  the 
remarkable  equipage  and  its  load. 

We  started  out,  with  Tom  holding  the  reins  and 
a  yard  of  breakfast  bacon,  while  his  knees  clasped 
a  five-gallon  can  of  kerosene.  Bert  was  clinging 
desperately  to  a  cuckoo  clock,  a  sugar-cured  ham, 
and  a  huge  sheaf  of  rose  cuttings.  He  sat  so  em- 
bowered in  green  leaves  that  he  resembled  a  May 
Queen.  Mary  breathed  heavily  under  the  burden 
of  eight  pounds  of  creamery  butter  and  a  kerosene 
lamp  with  a  very  large  shade  —  a  most  aggressive 
thing,  with  javelin-like  points.  Forming  a  sort  of 
barricade  in  front  of  me  were  piled  a  dozen  loaves 
of  baker's  bread,  four  boxes  of  shredded  wheat  bis- 
cuit, and  two  roasted  chickens.  Add  to  these  things 
three  umbrellas,  two  satchels,  a  lunch  basket,  and  a 
horse  collar,  and  do  you  wonder  the  children  gig- 
gled ?  Why  that  horse  collar  was  with  us  remains  a 
dark  mystery  to  this  day. 

As  we  left  the  village,  a  dense  fog  prevailed,  for 
which  we  were  rather  grateful,  as  it  proved  an 
effective  screen  for  our  disreputable  exit.  We  were 
hoping  it  might  lift  later,  as  we  knew  there  were 
fine  views  of  Mount  Hood,  Mount  Jefferson,  and 
the  Three  Sisters  en  route;  but  instead  of  dissipat- 
ing, it  gradually  thickened,  until  we  were  enveloped 
in  a  heavy  gray  vapor,  giving  us  a  strange  sense  of 
isolation.  All  landmarks  vanished;  the  world 
slipped  away;  we  seemed  afloat  on  a  "wide,  wide 

[5] 


JFrom  an  2Dtegon  IRatut) 

sea."  We  could  see  absolutely  nothing  except  our 
patient  toiling  horses,  and  occasionally  the  dim  out- 
lines of  an  old  rail  fence.  Upon  a  fence  post  we 
saw,  like  a  lone  sentry,  a  great  brown  owl,  as 
motionless  and  rigid  as  if  cast  in  bronze.  Once  from 
a  near-by  field  came  the  clear  voice  of  a  meadow 
lark.  Strangely  sweet  were  those  divine  notes  float- 
ing up  from  that  misty  obscurity. 

We  had  started  out  in  the  morning  quite  hilarious ; 
but  as  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  the  road 
increased,  our  talk  grew  desultory,  and  at  last  we 
rode  in  grim  silence.  The  mud  seemed  bottomless, 
and  the  never-ending  hills  were  so  steep  as  to  appear 
almost  perpendicular.  With  locked  wheels  we  slid 
down  their  precipitous  sides,  only  to  crawl  up  others 
that  seemed  steeper  still,  lurching  into  yawning 
chuck  holes  with  such  violence  that  the  kerosene 
splashed  and  the  green  bower  swayed  from  side  to 
side.  At  such  times  Mary's  lamp  shade  showed  its 
evil  nature.  Glancing  her  way,  I  saw  that  it  was 
useless  to  protest  against  its  murderous  attacks. 
Her  feet  were  planted  on  the  horse  collar,  her  lips 
closed  with  Napoleonic  firmness,  her  hat  jammed 
over  one  eye,  the  other  blazing  with  a  high  resolve 
to  carry  that  lamp  shade  to  its  goal  though  her  every 
living  friend  and  relative  should  fall  by  the  wayside. 
As  we  advanced,  the  woods  grew  denser,  the  road 
curving  around  narrow  mountain  ledges,  above  deep, 
dark  canyons,  where,  crowding  close,  tier  upon  tier, 

[6] 


jFrom  an  Oregon 

in  watchful  guardianship,  stood  the  somber  sentinel 
firs.  A  slip  of  a  foot  or  two,  and  we  would  have 
been  hurled  into  the  bottomless  pit.  A  native  Ore- 
gonian  may  pursue  his  serpentine  way  nonchalantly 
on  the  edge  of  these  craters,  but  to  a  tenderfoot  they 
bring  pimples  of  gooseflesh,  as  night  brings  out  the 
stars.  For  miles  our  advance  seemed  characterized 
by  a  succession  of  shudders.  Twice  did  we  ford 
mountain  streams  swollen  by  recent  rains  until  they 
had  become  tumbling,  boiling  cataracts,  with  cur- 
rents dangerously  swift.  These  streams  had  rocky 
beds,  and  our  old  ark  quivered  and  creaked  on  its 
stormy  passage  through  them.  As  the  foaming 
waves  leaped  for  us,  I  shut  my  eyes,  doubled  up  my 
toes,  and  thought  that  at  last  the  end  had  come. 
When  the  rush  of  water  ceased,  I  felt  rather  than 
saw  that  we  were  scrambling  up  the  opposite  bank, 
and,  opening  my  eyes,  saw  the  dripping  horses  once 
more  upon  terra  firma. 

I  am  sorry  to  take  leave  of  you  in  the  fog  and 
gloom  of  the  forest,  with  night  coming  on.  But  the 
night  of  this  day  is  coming  also,  and  with  it  comes 
Tom,  striding  down  our  woodsy  hill  like  a  hardy 
Norseman,  upon  his  shoulder  his  shining  axe  gleam- 
ing as  did  "Excalibur"  of  old.  That  he  is  raven- 
ously hungry  goes  without  saying.  So  I  must  lay 
aside  my  pen  and  prepare  our  evening  meal. 


[7] 


iHE  drizzling  rain  which  began  falling 
as  we  left  the  ford  continued  —  well,  I 
believe  it  continued  until  the  following 
June.  Crawling  up  the  toilsome  ascent, 
we  suddenly  entered  a  veritable  Black  Forest,  a 
vast  impenetrable  solitude.  Like  woodland  specters, 
the  fir  trees  crept  out  of  the  gloom,  standing 
in  military  ranks  by  the  roadside,  as  if  curious 
to  note  what  manner  of  ghosts  were  these,  lumbering 
in  their  strange  craft  up  through  the  long  green 
aisles.  When  halting,  as  we  often  did,  to  rest  our 
tired  horses,  the  silence  was  absolute.  One  would 
not  think  a  great  forest  could  be  so  breathlessly  still. 
Could  there  anywhere  be  noise  and  tumult?  Had 
not  the  eternal  silence  fallen  upon  the  whole  world, 
and  we  alone  escaped  the  universal  doom?  It  was 
an  uncanny  hush,  with  something  of  foreboding  in  it. 

[8] 


jftom  an  Dregott 

A  sort  of  unreasoning  terror  seized  me,  and  I 
suddenly  remembered  stories  we  had  been  told  of 
the  cougar,  the  coyote,  and  the  wildcat  sometimes 
seen  in  this  green  wilderness.  You  may  be  sure  that 
I  fell  a- thinking  of  them.  Were  they  fond,  I  won- 
dered, of  roasted  chicken  and  shredded  wheat?  Had 
they  yet  caught  the  scent  of  the  bacon?  That  very 
instant  lithe  furry  forms  with  glowing  eyes  might 
be  crouching  in  the  dark  boughs  above  us,  ready  to 
leap  upon  our  defenseless  heads,  or  soft  padded  feet 
might  be  stealthily  creeping  over  the  thick  velvety 
moss  to  attack  us  from  below.  Awed  by  that  vast 
immensity,  we  rode  on  in  silence,  and  not  one  living 
thing  did  we  see  or  hear,  not  even  the  whir  of  wings. 
Looking  backward  now  from  the  safe  shelter  of 
these  four  walls,  I  wish  something  had  at  least 
growled,  just  to  lend  a  touch  of  interest  to  my  narra- 
tive. The  forest  folk  may  have  watched  us  from 
behind  that  leafy  screen,  but  if  so,  they  gave  no 
hint  of  it.  After  a  time  we  turned  into  a  dim  sketchy 
road  of  twilight  gloom,  made  gloomier  by  the  riotous 
undergrowth.  Low-hanging  boughs  raked  the  sur- 
rey top,  and  long  green  fingers  reached  in  at  the 
sides,  snatching  maliciously  at  the  lace-befrilled 
lamp  shade.  It  was  a  "  no  thoroughfare  "  sort  of 
place,  but  as  we  bumped  along  over  stumps  and 
poles,  we  were  glad  to  learn  that  the  agony  would  be 
brief.  And  so  it  proved,  as  we  presently  entered  a 
wide  lane,  and  with  sighs  of  relief  beheld  open 

[9] 


JFrom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

cleared  spaces,  with  a  very  small  house,  a  larger 
barn,  and  sheds  innumerable.  After  passing  several 
such  places,  we  suddenly  plunged  down  a  steep 
declivity  with  a  roaring  torrent  at  its  base,  but 
stoutly  bridged  —  blessed  be  the  saints!  Up  one 
more  rise,  and  the  horses  were  stopped  before  a 
rickety  paling  fence,  the  driver  remarking,  "  Now, 
if  our  lady  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  will  glance  up 
the  heights,  she  will  behold  her  future  home." 

High  upon  a  steep  hillside  we  saw,  through  slant- 
ing rain  and  the  fast-gathering  shadows  of  night, 
a  very  tall  house  of  two  stories,  grim,  gaunt,  un- 
painted,  frowning  down  inhospitably  upon  us.  It 
looked  to  be  the  fitting  abode  of  hobgoblins,  war- 
locks, and  witches,  plainly  saying,  "Abandon  hope, 
all  ye  who  enter  here."  Half  dead  with  the  fatigue 
and  cramped  positions  of  our  long  ride,  we  could 
scarcely  stand  after  crawling  from  the  ambulance. 
An  infirm  gate,  lashed  to  its  moorings  with  a  bit  of 
rope,  fell  as  we  passed  through.  Going  up  the 
muddy  gulch  leading  to  the  house,  I  noticed  five 
ugly,  narrow,  curtainless  windows  glaring  at  us,  and 
I  noted  also  the  absence  of  a  front  porch.  As  in  a 
vision,  I  saw  the  home  we  had  left,  with  its  wide 
shining  windows,  broad  Colonial  porch,  and  round 
white  pillars.  A  painful  lump  rose  in  my  throat, 
and  just  then  and  there  came  my  first  and  last  touch 
of  homesickness. 

Steps  of  rough  slabs  led  up  to  the  front  entrance 


Jftom  3n  Dregon  IRancfj 

of  the  house;  the  steps  were  presumably  six  in  num- 
ber originally,  but  now  the  two  lower  ones  were 
missing.  As  a  final  note  of  desolation,  upon  one 
of  these  steps  stood  a  rusty  tin  can,  holding  a 
wretched,  sodden,  dead  geranium.  While  these 
observations  were  being  made,  Tom  was  struggling 
with  a  refractory  key  in  a  broken  lock,  which  finally 
yielded.  The  door  flew  open;  he  entered  the  new 
home,  roaring  in  tremendous  tones  — 

"I've  reached  the  land  of  corn  and  wine, 
And  all  its  treasures  freely  mine, 

O  Beulah  land,  sweet  Beulah  land  !  " 

Following  him,  we  found  it  dark  as  pitch  in 
"  Beulah  Land,"  with  an  atmosphere  strongly 
tainted  by  mice  and  mould,  with  a  lingering  dash 
of  bacon.  The  soloist  groped  his  way  through 
darkness  to  the  fireplace,  touching  with  a  match 
some  kindlings  and  wood  previously  arranged 
therein.  Then  came  a  hopeful  snapping  and  crack- 
ling of  lively  pine.  The  footlights  flashed  up,  one 
bright  little  blaze  followed  another,  until  soon 
golden  flames  were  dancing  and  leaping  up  the 
black  throat  of  the  wide  old  chimney.  Oh,  the 
glory  and  comfort  of  it!  Surely  nothing  else  in 
this  world  is  quite  so  cheery  and  inspiring  as  an 
open  wood  fire.  As  its  genial  warmth  began  to 
pervade  the  room,  now  brightly  illuminated  from 
floor  to  ceiling,  the  discomforts  of  the  day  and  the 


Jfrom  3n  flDregon  Rancft 

gloom  of  the  night  were  soon  forgotten.  As  the 
shadows  lifted  from  our  hearts,  the  pangs  of  hunger 
began  to  assert  themselves,  and  the  new  house- 
keepers set  to  work. 

On  a  previous  visit  Bert  had  made  a  lucky  find 
of  an  old  iron  teakettle.  This  he  now  brought  in, 
filled  with  fresh  spring  water,  and  placed  it  on  a  bed 
of  glowing  coals;  then  he  went  with  Tom  to  feed 
and  comfort  the  tired  horses.  Directly  in  front  of 
the  fire  was  the  only  vacant  space  in  the  room,  the 
rest  being  filled  with  crated  furniture  and  boxes. 
One  of  the  latter  was  shoved  into  the  open  space 
and  utilized  for  a  table,  a  newspaper  covering  its 
surface  instead  of  damask.  A  candle  stuck  in  a 
vaseline  bottle,  placed  upon  a  white  napkin,  served 
as  a  centerpiece.  The  contents  of  the  lunch  basket 
were  transferred  to  the  table,  and  the  repast  was 
ready,  with  the  exception  of  the  Java  and  Mocha 
combine,  which  was  soon  made,  as  the  kettle  was 
already  singing  merrily.  We  had  hoped  a  cricket 
hidden  away  in  the  hearth  might  "join  the  kettle" 
in  a  duet  of  welcome;  but  if  one  was  there,  he 
remained  obstinately  mute.  As  only  two  chairs 
were  obtainable,  the  male  members  of  the  party  were 
seated  at  the  banquet  upon  a  pile  of  fir  wood  and 
bark.  Never  was  a  meal  eaten  with  better  relish. 
There  was  no  time  for  after-dinner  talk,  as  sleeping 
arrangements  were  to  be  made,  bedding  to  be 
searched  for  and  unpacked  —  a  formidable  task 

[12] 


JFtom  an  SDregott 

amid  such  chaos.  Bert  and  Mary,  groaning  and 
perspiring,  succeeded  in  putting  up  a  bedstead  in 
an  adjoining  room,  surrounded  by  a  confused  mix- 
ture of  things  suggestive  of  the  reserve  stock  of  a 
department  store.  Scorning  the  luxury  of  a  bed- 
stead, we  hastily  tumbled  springs,  mattress,  and 
bedding  upon  the  floor,  and  were  ready  for  the 
"sweet  restorer." 

But  alas  for  human  hopes!  Just  as  our  heads 
touched  the  pillows  we  were  startled  by  the  most  ter- 
rific barking,  shrieking,  yelping,  and  howling  that 
ever  mortal  heard. 

"Tom,  what  under  the  sun  is  that?" 
"  A  pack  of  hounds  on  the  warpath,  that's  what." 
On  came  the  clamor,  "nearer,  clearer,  deadlier 
than  before,"  when  suddenly  the  whole  crew  of  bed- 
lamites dashed  under  our  house.     Bert  called  out, 
"They've  treed  us  the  first  dash,  Tom!"     There 
they  were,  snapping,  snarling,  gnashing  their  teeth, 
thumping  and   bumping  against   the  very  boards 
upon  which  we  were  lying. 

"Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then."  Armed 
with  her  threescore  years  and  the  iron  poker,  pro- 
ceeding to  the  door,  which  she  opened  fully  two 
inches,  she  said  in  calm  but  firm  tones,  "  You  dogs, 
go  home,  every  last  one  of  you !  Go  home,  I  say ! 
Go ! "  Then  a  voice  was  heard  from  the  department 
store,  saying  softly,  "Yes,  kind,  good  doggies,  do 
go."  And  they  did  go,  giving  me  the  surprise  of 

[13] 


jfrom  3n  SDregott  Kane!) 

my  life.  The  instant  my  brave  words  were  heard, 
the  racket  ceased,  and  they  came  tumbling  out  from 
under  the  house,  and  went  scampering  off  in  the 
darkness  as  if  fiends  were  at  their  heels.  A  human 
voice  from  a  house  long  deserted  must  have  shaken 
their  nerves.  Tom,  however,  saw  things  in  a  dif- 
ferent light,  for,  as  I  closed  the  door  with  a  trium- 
phant bang,  he  remarked,  "  Rather  a  doubtful  com- 
pliment to  your  charms ! "  There  were  no  more 
disturbing  sounds  during  the  remainder  of  the  night, 
and  we  slept  until  the  morning  was  far  advanced. 

Breakfast  hastily  prepared  and  eaten,  a  little 
leisure  and  the  light  of  day  gave  us  an  opportunity 
to  inspect  our  new  home.  The  room  we  were  occu- 
pying had  at  least  one  favorable  feature  —  it  was 
very  large.  A  high  ceiling  of  wood  was  painted  an 
ugly  dull  brown,  the  other  woodwork  in  two  shades 
of  brown.  The  artist  designing  the  wall  paper  must 
have  been  either  color-blind  or  color-mad.  Soiled 
and  defaced,  the  paper  was  torn  off  in  some  places, 
in  others  it  hung  in  long,  fluttering,  mildewed  strips. 
There  were  four  gloomy  doors,  and  four  high,  nar- 
row windows,  criss-crossed  by  many  panes  —  all 
dreary  enough,  surely.  For  consolation  we  looked 
to  the  wide  old  fireplace  of  stone,  piled  high  with 
blazing  logs,  shining  for  us  as  shines  a  beacon  light 
to  the  drowning  mariner.  The  adjoining  room  was 
of  comfortable  dimensions  —  woodwork  blue  as  the 
sky;  walls  embellished  with  trailing  blue  roses;  three 


jfrom  an  2Dregon 

windows,  five  panes  of  glass  missing,  for  which  oil- 
cloth was  substituted.  At  the  two  side  windows 
hung  remnants  of  Nottingham  lace  curtains,  stained 
by  rain  and  yellowed  by  time.  As  we  touched  them, 
fragments  fell  at  our  feet,  like  the  decaying  wed- 
ding finery  of  Miss  Havisham.  In  a  closet  connected 
with  the  room  we  found  a  mouse-eaten  volume  of 
the  "Lives  of  Eminent  Women,"  and  a  stuffed 
China  pheasant,  with  one  eye  gone,  as  well  as  the 
larger  part  of  its  feathers  —  a  sorry-looking  object. 
The  dining  room  was  small  and  extremely  dark, 
depressing  wall  paper  and  paint  increasing  the 
gloom.  Beyond  was  a  kitchen,  big  enough  to  fur- 
nish forth  a  feast  for  a  company  of  dragoons.  Ex- 
tending the  whole  length  of  kitchen  and  dining  room 
was  a  porch  as  wide  as  the  platform  of  a  railway 
station;  while  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  dining 
room  was  another,  of  less  alarming  proportions. 
The  architectural  marvel  of  the  house  was  that  the 
entrance  to  the  second  floor  was  from  the  outside 
instead  of  the  inside. 


IADIES  and  gentlemen,"  cried  Tom, 
we  are  now  about  to  attempt  the 
bold  feat  of  reaching  the  second  floor 
of  the  house  of  the  Ranch  of  the 
Pointed  Firs.  Having  myself  once  successfully 
made  the  ascent  of  the  architectural  Matterhorn 
leading  to  that  region,  I  am  prepared  by  that  expe- 
rience to  act  as  your  guide.  First,  allow  me  to 
inquire,  are  you  all  wearing  shoes  with  hobnails  and 
cleats?  Very  good.  The  ladies  will  need  alpen- 
stocks," handing  us  each  a  bedslat.  His  glance  just 
then  falling  upon  a  coil  of  rope  used  during  the 
process  of  moving,  his  face  lighted  with  the  sudden 
thought  of  further  absurdity. 

"  That  the  exploit  upon  which  we  are  embarking 
is  a  perilous  one,  I  will  not  deny.  To  guard  against 
accidents  and  possible  loss  of  life,  it  is  necessary 
that  we  should  be  firmly  bound  one  to  another  with 

[16] 


Jfrom  9in  2Dre0on  Rancft 

this  rope.  Reverend  Chadband,  allow  me  to  begin 
with  you,"  deftly  twining  the  cord  around  the  waist 
of  Bert,  whose  clerical  title  had  been  suggested  by 
his  having  recently  donned  a  very  old  and  dilapi- 
dated Prince  Albert  coat. 

Our  self -constituted  guide,  having  gravely  bound 
us  together  and  tied  the  rope  about  his  own  person, 
looked  us  over  with  gratified  pride. 

"We  are  now,  I  think,  in  proper  climbing  trim. 
An  X-ray  worn  as  a  miner's  lamp  would  prove  serv- 
iceable, but  may  be  dispensed  with.  Forward, 
march ! " 

We  filed  out  on  a  long  narrow  porch,  the  surface 
of  which  had  a  thick  slippery  coating,  caused  by 
continual  rains.  It  was  as  slippery  as  if  both  greased 
and  soaped.  An  iron  rake  leaning  against  the  wall 
gave  to  our  careful  leader  another  inspiration.  Pass- 
ing it  to  Bert,  he  remarked,  "If  our  esteemed 
brother,  will  insert  the  iron  teeth  of  this  implement 
in  the  girdle  of  the  rear  lady,  giving  it  a  secure 
twist,  it  may  be  of  invaluable  service  to  us  when  the 
actual  ascent  begins."  The  "brother"  complied 
with  cheerful  alacrity,  especially  as  to  the  "secure 
twist." 

At  the  end  of  the  porch  a  door  opened  into  a  dark 
closet.  Directly  opposite  was  an  extremely  narrow 
stairway,  almost  as  nearly  perpendicular  as  a  fire- 
escape,  with  sides  roughly  boarded  up.  It  was  as 
dark  as  Erebus,  with  not  a  ray  of  light  except  a 


JFrom  an  SDregon 

faint  glimmer  from  above.  Looking  up  this  black 
funnel,  Tom's  elaborate  preparations  seemed  less 
preposterous.  He  now  called  out,  "  Brother  Chad- 
band,  is  the  hoisting  apparatus  in  position?" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  was  the  unclerical  response. 

"Very  well;  now,  ladies,  cling  bravely  to  the 
rope.  Plant  your  alpenstocks  firmly  with  each 
advancing  step.  Be  cool,  be  calm.  Keep  your  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  summit,  and  don't  look  back." 

Strictly  obeying  instructions,  we  had  scarcely  got 
under  way  before  our  guide  halted.  "  Perhaps,  if 
the  ladies  feel  up  to  it,  a  bit  of  yodeling  might 
relieve  the  tedium  of  the  ascent  and  add  much  to 
its  realism." 

As  the  ladies  were  now  laughing  hysterically,  they 
were  hardly  "up  to  it."  The  ever-willing  Chad- 
band,  however,  was  equal  to  the  emergency.  An 
oily  voice  was  heard  saying,  "  I  myself,  carnal  vessel 
that  I  am,  will  essay  a  few  joyful  notes  unto  these 
hills."  Whereupon  arose  a  sound  of  lamentation 
not  unlike  the  lonely  howling  of  a  distant  wolf, 
broken  at  intervals  by  a  shrill  war  whoop.  By 
steady  pulling  from  above  and  violent  shoving  from 
below,  we  were  finally  landed  in  a  heap  upon  the 
floor,  in  the  center  of  a  big,  garret-like  room,  dimly 
lighted  by  one  small,  dusty,  cobwebby  window. 
While  being  released  from  bondage,  our  guide 
remarked,  as  he  glanced  around,  "We  are  now  in 
the  Cave  of  the  Winds,  a  locality  rarely  visited  by 

[18] 


Jfrom  3n  ffl)re0on 

the  ordinary  tourist ;  those  glittering  stalactites  above 
our  heads  are  Nature's  own  formation/5  It  was  a 
true  statement,  the  stalactites  being  long  rows  of 
yellow  seed  corn  strung  on  wires.  A  couple  of 
bottomless  chairs,  a  few  joints  of  rusty  stovepipe, 
and  an  old  scythe  with  a  broken  blade,  hanging  over 
one  of  the  rafters,  completed  the  attractions. 

We  were  very  eager  for  a  glimpse  of  the  adjoin- 
ing apartment,  as  we  had  been  told  it  was  built  and 
had  been  used  exclusively  as  a  ball  room.  Just  think 
of  it  —  we  were  about  to  visit  our  own  private  ball 
room !  Do  you  wonder  that  our  hearts  swelled  with 
pride  as  we  entered  that  hall  of  many  past  festivi- 
ties? It  certainly  was  spacious — twenty  feet  wide 
and  thirty  long,  with  a  truly  beautiful  smooth  floor. 
It  was  rather  cheerful,  too,  lighted  by  four  windows. 
An  immense  alder  stood  so  near  the  eastern  windows 
that  its  leafless  branches  trailed  across  their  panes. 
A  rosebush  had  climbed  half-way  up  its  trunk  and 
was  swinging  gracefully  from  its  boughs,  still  fresh 
and  green.  From  the  west  we  looked  straight  into 
the  encircling  arms  of  a  glorious  big  fir  tree. 

Between  two  of  the  windows  was  a  slightly  ele- 
vated platform,  upon  which  stood  a  nail  keg,  which 
we  inferred  had  been  used  as  a  seat  for  the  long-ago 
musician,  as  an  empty  violin  case  still  leaned  pathet- 
ically against  it.  Here  were  also  an  iron  bootjack 
and  a  perforated  tin  lantern,  suggestive  of  tight  wet 
boots  and  dark  nights.  The  room  was  simply 

[19] 


JFrom  3n  2Dre0on 

boarded  up,  with  no  ceiling,  but  merely  rafters  and 
shingles  overhead.  Starting  from  the  musician's 
stand,  were  rough  board  seats  extending  around  the 
room,  supported  by  blocks  of  wood.  Shallow  boxes 
were  nailed  to  the  walls,  each  containing  a  small 
kerosene  lamp.  Near  one  of  the  windows  hung  a 
long  narrow  mirror,  framed  in  cheap  red,  now 
badly  scratched  and  marred.  Lying  beneath  this 
was  a  set  of  quilting  frames,  which  gave  us  the  idea 
that  a  quilting  party  sometimes  preceded  the  dance. 
In  one  corner  of  the  room  was  a  pile  of  abandoned 
rubbish  —  fragments  of  an  old  loom,  and  many 
broken  and  disabled  farming  implements.  Tom, 
delving  among  these  relics,  suddenly  shouted, 
"  Hello !  I've  found  the  '  Entailed  Hat.'  It  wasn't 
buried  with  that  old  duffer,  after  all."  He  certainly 
had  unearthed  the  most  antiquated  specimen  of  head- 
gear ever  seen  outside  the  walls  of  a  museum  —  a 
faded  brown  beaver,  with  wide  brim  and  high  bell- 
shaped  crown,  which  he  was  jamming  in  here  and 
bulging  out  there,  with  a  view  to  restoring  its  orig- 
inal shape.  "  It's  been  a  dandy  in  its  day,"  he  com- 
mented, as  he  smoothed  its  frowsy  surface,  "and 
it's  not  a  bad  tile  yet.  I  don't  know  but  I  might 
wear  it  myself  on  Sundays,  walking  about  in  the 
holy  calm,  looking  over  my  possessions.  How  do  I 
look,  Bert?"  he  asked,  having  donned  it  and  pulled 
it  well  down  over  his  ears. 

"  Well,  if  I  must  answer,  I  should  say  you  look  a 

[20] 


Jfrom  3n  Dregon  Kancft 

composite  of  Guy  Fawkes,  Puritan  father,  and  Buf- 
falo Bill,  with  perhaps  just  a  dash  of  Oregon 
farmer,"  replied  the  reverend  joker. 

While  this  by-play  was  going  on,  I  had  been 
trying  to  burnish  the  old  mirror's  cloudy  surface, 
finding  the  bluish  haze  was  there  to  stay.  I  thought 
of  the  antique  mirror  of  which  Hawthorne  tells  us, 
that  hung  in  the  old  Province  House — the  one  old 
Esther  Dudley  so  often  stood  before,  leaning  upon 
her  gold-headed  staff,  seeing  pass  across  its  blurred 
surface  in  shadowy  procession  the  pomp  and  pagean- 
try of  the  past.  As  the  others  came  up,  I  said, 

"  We  have  a  real  treasure  here ! " 

"  It  looks  it,"  said  one. 

"  I  find  it  is  an  enchanted  mirror ;  it  possesses 
magical  properties,  and  if  one  stood  here  at  just  the 
right  hour  she  would  see  crossing  its  dim  surface 
the  shades  of  all  the  dead  and  gone  revelers  this  old 
room  has  ever  known." 

"Do  you  reckon,  if  a  fellow  should  come  up  here 
about  the  witching  hour  of  twelve  in  the  dark  of  the 
moon,  with  a  rabbit's  foot  in  each  hand  — " 

"Hush,  foolish  scoffer!  Even  now  they  come  —  " 

"Well,  they're  in  a  mighty  big  hurry.  You  tell 
'em  we  ain't  fixed  up  at  all ;  that  we  are  sleeping  on 
the  floor,  and  —  " 

"Behold,  a  great,  swarthy,  athletic  young  moun- 
taineer, tall  and  straight  as  his  native  pines  —  " 

"  Gee  whiz !    Must  be  a  hundred  feet  high ! " 

[21] 


Jfrom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

"  Don't  interrupt,  please ;  remember,  there  were 
giants  in  those  days.  They  quickly  pass.  But  what 
strange  figures  are  these  stealthily  gliding  through 
the  gray  shadows?" 

"Injins,  I'll  bet  you!  Are  they  togged  up  in 
fringed  buckskin  and  moccasins,  with  a  lot  of  dan- 
glin'  beads  and  feather  fixin's  ?  " 

"  Alas !  Shocked  by  your  skepticism,  they  recede. 
Ah!  they  are  gone!" 

"  Good !  Let  the  old  spooks  go !  Say,  let's  try  a 
waltz ;  this  old  floor  is  a  daisy."  And  then,  the  spirit 
of  folly  being  in  full  possession,  if  you  could  have 
looked  through  the  windows  of  this  old  garret,  you 
would  have  seen  four  elderly  figures  half  veiled  in 
dust  gliding  and  whirling  up  and  down  the  long 
room,  while  the  rain  rattled  like  hail  upon  the 
shingles.  We  thought  we  did  it  fairly  well,  with 
the  exception,  as  Tom  said,  of  "breathin'  a  little 
'ard,  like  the  young  recruit  at  the  'angin'  of  Danny 
Deever." 

"  Now  for  a  schottische ! "  he  cried,  as  he  began 
whistling  "  Pop  Goes  the  Weasel." 

"Oh,  Tom,  that's  too  awfully  plebeian!" 

"Plebeian?  That's  just  where  you're  wrong. 
The  'shortish'  was  mighty  popular  in  airly  days." 

The  cuckoo  below,  just  then  chiming  out  the  noon 
hour,  nipped  this  discussion,  and  quickly  restored 
our  lost  sanity. 

"  Twelve  o'clock ! "  said  Mary,  excitedly.    "  Who 

[22] 


Jftom  an  2Dre0ott 

could  have  thought  we  had  idled  away  a  whole  hour 
in  this  idiotic  fashion?  I  truly  believe,  if  we  had 
been  caught  at  this  nonsense,  we  would  all  have  been 
clapped  into  straight  jackets  and  carted  off  to  the 
madhouse ! " 

Tom  rushed  across  the  room  to  the  corner  of 
odds  and  ends,  and  hung  the  old  hat  on  the  top  of 
a  hoe  handle,  hurriedly  remarking,  "  Mr.  Milburn, 
revered  though  invisible  shade,  I  return  your  valu- 
able inheritance,  thanking  you  kindly  for  its  loan. 
The  inaugural  ball  is  now  over.  Lights  will  be 
turned  off  at  once.  Follow  me  —  fly!"  And  he 
dashed  through  the  Cave  of  the  Winds,  and  dropped 
into  the  hole  in  the  floor,  shouting  back  through  the 
darkness,  "  Shoot  the  chute — everybody ! " 

Prosaic  duties  were  awaiting  us  below.  The  men 
hurried  off  in  search  of  fuel  —  just  then  one  of  our 
most  crying  needs.  We  busied  ourselves  with  prep- 
arations for  cooking  our  first  dinner  by  a  fireplace. 
Potatoes  were  buried  in  the  ashes,  and  then  covered 
with  a  nice  warm  blanket  of  coals.  Onions  were 
given  the  same  treatment,  after  being  partially 
peeled  and  wrapped  in  white  tissue  paper.  Fiery 
coals  were  raked  out  to  make  a  hot-box  for  the 
teakettle.  A  row  of  fine  apples  was  placed  on  the 
hearth  at  proper  distance  from  the  heat.  Then  the 
perspiring  cooks  rushed  to  the  door  for  air  and  to 
cool  their  blistered  faces.  We  agreed  that  cooking 
by  an  open  fire  was  interesting  as  a  new  experience, 

[23] 


JFrom  3n  flDregon 

but  that  in  time  it  might  pall  upon  one.  In  a  sur- 
prisingly short  time,  however,  the  apples  turned  a 
golden  brown,  plumped  up  and  burst  open,  their 
escaping  juices  bubbling  into  white  foam.  "  Done ! " 
said  the  experts,  as  they  were  placed  in  a  dish  and 
given  a  liberal  powdering  of  sugar.  Then,  with 
well  bandaged  hand,  and  face  shielded  by  the  dust- 
pan, one  of  the  brave  pioneers  volunteered  to  ex- 
hume the  potatoes.  They  were  found,  like  the 
apples,  to  be  roasted  to  the  queen's  taste,  were  taken 
by  the  assistant  chef  and  carefully  folded  in  a  nap- 
kin, while  the  red-eyed  explorer  probed  the  next 
mound.  This  proved  to  be  less  satisfactory;  the 
onions  were  yielding  but  slowly  to  their  doom. 
More  coals  were  added.  Thin  slices  of  ham  were 
laid  across  the  bars  of  the  wire  toaster  and  broiled 
beautifully,  coffee  was  made,  and  the  dry  goods  box 
given  a  real  table  cloth  in  honor  of  the  occasion. 
At  each  plate  was  a  spray  of  buckthorn  —  a  lovely, 
dark,  waxen  leaf,  in  color  and  shape  like  holly. 

When  the  onions  did  give  in,  they  did  it  hand- 
somely. Upon  removing  their  wrappers,  we  found 
a  soft,  pulpy  mass,  which,  when  seasoned  and  but- 
tered, was  delicious.  The  gentlemen  pronounced 
the  dinner  good  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  epicurean 
taste.  We  bowed  our  burning  heads  in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  compliment.  We  couldn't  blush;  our 
crimson  faces  could  take  no  deeper  tint. 

After  three  days  of  this  underground  cooking  we 

[24] 


jfrom  an  fl)re0on 


struck.  But  one  loaf  of  bread  remained,  and  we 
were  much  too  amateurish  to  attempt  bread-baking 
over  the  coals  or  under  them  ;  so  we  said  decisively, 
"Tomorrow  morning  that  range  goes  up  or  we  go 
out." 


F  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them 
now,  as  you  listen  to  a  tale  of  woe  ris- 
ing with  the  blue  mists  from  the  fir-clad 
hills  of  Oregon.  You  will  remember 
that  the  burned  and  blistered  cooks  of  the  fireplace 
had  rebelled;  that  the  edict  had  gone  forth  that 
the  kitchen  range  should  go  up  at  once,  as  but  one 
loaf  of  bread  remained  in  sight  —  and  now,  alas! 
even  that  had  vanished.  You  will  hardly  believe 
that  Pandora  was  hidden  away  within  the  interior 
of  that  innocent-looking  range!  The  very  instant 
violent  hands  were  laid  upon  it,  that  malignant  god- 
dess raised  the  lid  of  her  direful  box,  and  such  a 
swarm  of  undreamed-of  troubles  buzzed  about  us! 
In  the  first  place,  the  stove  had  been  left  by  the 
teamsters  on  the  dining  room  porch  instead  of  the 
kitchen  porch.  It  was  impossible  now  to  carry  it 
through  the  former  room,  which  was  packed  solidly 

[26] 


jfrom  3tt  Dre0on 

from  floor  to  ceiling  with  boxes  and  crated  goods. 
To  take  it  around  the  house,  on  a  muddy,  slippery 
hillside,  looked  an  impossibility. 

To  add  to  the  general  wretchedness  of  things,  the 
weather  had  changed  in  the  night;  the  rain  had 
turned  to  sleet,  and  now  snow  was  falling,  freezing 
as  it  fell.  After  much  scheming  the  ponderous  stove 
was  finally  zigzagged  off  the  porch  and  placed  upon 
wooden  rollers,  immediately  sinking  fathoms  deep 
in  mud.  In  spite  of  all  lifting,  pushing,  and  prying, 
it  sat  there  as  firmly  fixed  as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar. 
A  new  propeller  was  devised ;  then,  after  wobbling  a 
little,  it  lurched  forward  a  foot  or  two.  Thinking  to 
give  a  light  touch  to  the  scene,  I  cried  joyously  — 

"  She  starts,  she  moves,  she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel  ! " 

Then  two  pairs  of  eyes  were  lifted,  from  which 
flashed  murder  in  the  first  degree.  It  seems  that 
poetry  doesn't  always  find  favor  with  the  sterner 
sex.  By  pluck  and  perseverance  the  monster  was 
finally  located  where  it  should  have  been  placed  when 
taken  from  the  wagon.  The  range  was  wide,  the 
door  narrow.  That  the  one  would  never  go  through 
the  other,  Mary  and  I  both  saw  at  a  glance  —  a 
knowledge  gained  by  the  men  only  after  making 
careful  measurements.  The  door  was  taken  off  its 
hinges.  More  measurements,  but  still  no  go;  now 

[27] 


Jftom  an  SDtegon 

the  door  frame  itself  must  be  taken  out  —  and  all 
the  time  the  weather  was  growing  colder,  the  sleet 
thicker. 

"Got  to  tear  the  whole  end  of  the  house  out," 
growled  Tom,  "to  get  this  blasted  old  man-of-war 
in  here;  I  always  said  that  it  was  a  fool  notion  to 
bring  it!"  Of  course  he  was  the  one  who  insisted 
upon  bringing  it;  but  I  have  learned  there  is  a  time 
to  keep  silence.  Can  you  believe  that  even  after  the 
taking  out  of  the  door  frame  that  stubborn  thing 
wouldn't  go  in?  The  only  hope  left  was  in  the  re- 
moving of  a  projecting  plate,  strongly  riveted  with 
bolts  —  a  task  for  John  L.  Sullivan.  But  Tom  was 
mad  now ;  "  his  strength  was  as  the  strength  of  ten.  " 
With  chisel  and  monkey  wrench  he  bore  down  upon 
the  offending  obstacle  and  literally  tore  it  out  by  the 
roots.  Lidless,  doorless,  and  backless,  like  a  shorn 
Samson,  the  stove  then  went  quietly  enough  to  its 
fate.  After  the  pipe  was  jointed  and  poked  out 
through  a  hole  in  the  roof  (there  being  no  chimney), 
it  became  apparent  that  some  one  must  climb  up  there 
and  wire  it  in  position  —  a  dangerous  undertaking, 
the  roofs  of  Oregon  houses  being  as  steep  as  tobog- 
gan slides,  and  this  one  just  now  glazed  with  sleet. 
Bert  believed  he  could  do  the  trick  by  nailing  wooden 
cleats  for  each  advancing  step.  There  being  no 
ladder  on  the  premises,  a  table,  surmounted  by  a 
barrel,  was  placed  at  the  edge  of  the  porch.  The 
daring  adventurer,  armed  with  hatchet,  nails,  and  a 

[28] 


Jftom  3n  SDregon 

coil  of  wire,  mounted  this  pedestal,  observing  that 
he  felt  quite  like  a  performing  elephant.  After  vio- 
lent struggling  and  some  vigorous  boosting,  he  was 
safely  landed  on  the  porch  roof.  Crossing  it  gin- 
gerly, he  called  down,  "  Now  send  up  your  lumber/' 
which  went  up  with  the  caution,  "  Nail  'em  on  firm, 
old  chap;  you're  in  ticklish  business." 

It  certainly  was  "ticklish."  That  almost  per- 
pendicular roof,  covered  with  sleet,  shone  like  a 
glacier.  We  begged  him  to  give  it  up  and  come 
down ;  but  he  was  too  plucky  for  that,  as  was  testified 
by  the  grim  declaration,  "We  build  the  ladder  by 
which  we  rise,"  as  with  much  hammering  of  nails 
and  crackling  of  ice  he  slowly  toiled  to  the  summit. 
At  the  extreme  end  of  the  building  stood  what  we 
called  the  "  Leaning  Tower  of  Pisa."  How  he  was 
to  cross  that  long  stretch  of  roof,  we  couldn't  see. 
This  problem  he  immediately  solved  by  sitting 
astride  the  comb  of  the  roof  and  jumping  himself 
along,  in  a  series  of  kangaroo  leaps  —  a  moving  spec- 
tacle, as  seen  upon  the  sharp  ridge  of  a  snowy  cliff: 
that  dark,  distorted  figure,  half  crawling,  half  leap- 
ing, followed  by  the  funereal  folds  of  a  trailing 
Prince  Albert  coat. 

Tom,  unable  to  restrain  his  delight,  called  out, 
with  true  showman  eloquence,  "The  greatest  free 
open-air  entertainment  ever  seen  upon  the  Pacific 
Slope!  Professor  Clutch-'em-Tight,  the  world- 
renowned  bareback  rider,  crossing  the  Alps  upon  his 

[29] 


Jftom  an  SDtegon  Kancft 

famous  Iceland  steed,  '  Razor-back/  which  never 
until  this  hour  felt  the  restraining  hand  of  man. 
Fifty  cents  and  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  admits  you  to 
the  big  tent.  Hurry  up,  everybody ! " 

The  "  Professor,"  ignoring  this  harangue,  gal- 
loped solemnly  on  to  his  goal.  The  "  tower  "  being 
then  some  feet  below  him,  a  few  descending  steps 
were  made.  Standing  upon  this  icy  slope,  the  wiring 
was  done,  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  ground 
floor  assistant,  who,  feeling  that  the  worst  of  the 
work  was  about  over,  and  himself  safe  on  terra  fir  ma } 
was  now  in  buoyant  spirits,  singing  in  tones  loud 
enough  to  have  been  heard  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Hood  — 

"  High  in  the  belfry  the  old  sexton  stands, 
Grasping  a  wire  in  his  thin  bony  hands." 

"The  troubadour  is  most  flattering,  especially  as 
to  thin,  bony  hands;  but  I  would  suggest  that  he 
leave  off  that  bellowing  and  go  inside  and  start  up 
his  old  furnace." 

" '  I  do  make  all  convenient  haste,  my  lord,' "  he 
called,  as  he  came  bustling  into  the  kitchen.  "  That 
old  Santa  Claus  on  the  roof,  in  the  heel-cracker  coat, 
is  advising  me  to  fire  up,"  he  said  to  us,  cramming 
in  fuel  and  striking  matches.  "  I'll  have  this  thing 
going  like  a  house  afire  in  about  a  minute.  You  can 
start  your  biscuit  now ;  and,  say,  open  a  can  of  maple 
syrup,  and  we'll  have  a  high  jinks  of  a  time." 

[30] 


Jfrom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

And  we  had  it  too;  for  no  sooner  was  the  fire 
started  than  smoke  began  pouring  out  from  every 
crack  and  crevice  of  that  stove,  even  from  the  front 
draught.  It  filled  the  house  and  rolled  in  billowy 
masses  from  open  doors  and  broken  windows.  We 
were  sure  that  nothing  like  it  had  been  seen  since 
the  burning  of  Chicago.  The  operator,  dumb  with 
amazement,  was  dimly  seen  through  the  haze  pranc- 
ing round  and  round  the  stove  like  a  whirling  der- 
vish, opening  and  closing  draughts,  slamming  doors 
and  lids,  jamming  in  more  fuel  and  striking  more 
matches,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Each  and  every 
effort  ended  in  smoke.  Bert,  having  returned  to 
earth,  stood  gasping  in  the  door. 

"  I  thought  you  hadn't  fired  her ;  no  smoke  at  all 
Above." 

"You  didn't  expect  this  blamed  old  sarcophagus 
to  smoke  at  both  ends,  did  you  ?  "  And  then  the  flood 
gates  of  wrath  opened.  His  listeners  will  never 
again  doubt  the  existence  of  the  emotional  Mr.  Bow- 
ser. There  was  absolutely  no  draught.  It  was 
found  that  the  projecting  pipe  aloft  was  not  of  suffi- 
cient height;  for  it  must  be  substituted  one  of  those 
tall  smokestacks,  and  there  was  no  hope  of  fire  until 
this  could  be  done.  This  discovery  would  not  have 
meant  much  in  the  old  home,  where  the  desired  stack 
could  have  been  ordered  from  a  hardware  store  and 
put  in  place  within  the  hour ;  but  here  it  meant  a  drive 
of  forty  miles  to  and  from  the  little  town  we  had  left, 

[31] 


JFrom  an  Oregon 

at  a  season  of  the  year  when  roads  were  at  their 
worst. 

It  was  decided  that  the  trip  should  be  made  the 
following  day,  there  being  no  advantage  in  postpone- 
ment, with  ravenous  appetites  calling  for  bread 
where  no  bread  could  be  had.  We  were  told  that  the 
coming  trip  was  the  only  one  that  would  be  made 
until  the  next  spring,  and  were  advised  to  keep  that 
fact  before  us  in  the  making  up  of  our  memoranda 
—  a  mighty  task  for  women  accustomed  to  the  or- 
dering of  daily  supplies,  with  the  telephone  at  hand 
to  rectify  errors  or  omissions.  Our  entire  evening 
was  devoted  to  this  work,  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that 
only  one  item  was  forgotten,  but  that  the  important 
one  of  eggs — an  omission  which  was  rued  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes  for  weeks  to  come.  When  the  four 
long  lists  were  finished  and  folded,  the  "  alarm  "  was 
wound  and  set  at  four  o'clock,  whereupon  a  universal 
groan  was  heard.  Instantly  our  spirits  fell  to  zero, 
and  there  remained. 

Promptly  at  the  time  appointed,  that  clock  opened 
up  for  business.  I  think  it  must  have  awakened 
every  sleeper  between  the  two  oceans.  We  had  never 
known  it  to  work  so  vigorously.  Whether  Tom  had, 
in  winding  it,  given  an  extra  turn  or  two,  or  some- 
thing vital  had  given  way  inside,  will  probably  never 
be  known.  While  the  horses  were  being  fed  and 
harnessed  by  the  fitful  light  of  a  lantern,  our  third 
breadless  meal  was  prepared.  We  had  crackers, 

[32] 


jFrom  3n  Oregon  Hancft 

fortunately,  and  "  before-daylight "  appetites  are 
easily  satisfied. 

Our  wretched  pilgrims  had  been  long  on  their  way 
ere  the  dawn  climbed  over  our  green  hills.  The  day 
was  very  dark  and  cloudy.  Early  in  the  afternoon 
rain  began  falling.  By  six  o'clock  darkness  fell  like 
a  pall  upon  us  —  no  moon,  no  stars,  no  ray  of  light. 
Even  then  we  began  listening  for  the  sound  of 
wheels,  though  we  had  been  told  not  to  expect  the 
wanderers  before  eight  o'clock.  We  put  lamps  in 
the  windows,  drew  up  the  blinds,  piled  high  with  logs 
the  old  fireplace,  hoping  the  illumination  might  make 
a  little  path  of  radiance  through  the  forest's  gloom. 
For  us  this  was  an  uncanny  experience.  Outside, 
no  "social  watchfires"  gleamed  from  neighborly 
windows ;  in  fact,  there  were  no  windows  —  only  the 
blackness  of  night.  Within  the  old  house  were  two 
lone,  listening  women.  From  the  "  ball  room  "  above 
came  a  flying  touch  of  phantom  feet  and  a  faint 
swish  of  ghostly  skirts,  as  plainly  heard  as  the 
scurrying  of  mice  among  the  packing  boxes.  High 
up  among  the  pines  a  lonely  night  bird  screamed; 
while  upon  the  window  sills  fell  the  steady  drip,  drip, 
drip  of  the  rain,  as  if  some  wandering  spirit  of  the 
night  were  rapping  out  for  us  a  message. 

Not  until  ten  o'clock  did  we  hear  the  welcome 
rumble  of  wheels  over  the  little  bridge  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  Then  came  a  loud  "  Whoo-whoo,"  a  sort 
of  mountain  call  we  have  learned  here.  How  quickly 

[33] 


JFrom  an  flDregon 

we  flew  to  the  door  and  gave  an  answering  call,  all 
our  fears  forgotten!  As  that  wagon-load  of  mer- 
chandise had  to  be  carried  in,  it  was  midnight  before 
we  sat  at  supper,  listening  to  a  detailed  account  of 
the  vexations  and  mishaps  of  the  day.  About  dusk 
the  travelers  had  found  themselves  "  stuck  fast  in  the 
mud/'  working  vainly  a  whole  hour  with  rails  and 
poles  to  lift  those  wheels  out  of  a  bog.  Fortunately 
a  Good  Samaritan  came  along  with  a  team  of  big 
Clydesdale  horses,  which  he  hitched  to  the  wagon, 
yanking  it  out  in  a  jiffy.  Tom  said  he  could  have 
fallen  upon  the  big  necks  of  the  horses  and  blubbered 
for  joy.  Just  then  night  swooped  down;  and  from 
that  time  until  they  reached  home,  one  had  to  walk  in 
advance  with  the  lantern. 

Thus  endeth  the  story  of  the  putting  up  of  a 
kitchen  range  in  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs. 

P.  S.  Among  the  merchandise  .were  found  five 
kinds  of  bread. 


HAVE  been  thinking,  dear  Nell,  that 
my  letters  have  shown  you  only  the 
somber  side  of  our  ranch  life.  When 
you  think  of  us  in  our  new  Oregon 
home,  you  probably  imagine  a  dreary, 
grim  old  house,  perched  high  on  a  hillside ;  only  that, 
and  nothing  more.  You  know  nothing  of  the  beauty 
of  our  surroundings,  nothing  of  the  semicircle  of 
towering  hills  clad  from  base  to  summit  with  the 
living  green  of  fir  trees,  seen  from  our  front  win- 
dows and  separated  from  us  by  only  a  very  narrow 
glen  —  the  latter  as  green  and  fresh  in  January  as 
are  our  lawns  at  home  in  May.  Curving  and  wind- 
ing through  this  little  valley,  with  a  tracery  of  green 
trees  and  leafless  ones,  is  the  loveliest  mountain 
stream  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on  —  in  summertime 
a  dreamily  murmuring  rivulet ;  in  winter  a  rushing, 
roaring  torrent.  Then  it  comes  rollicking  and  roy- 

[35] 


Jfrom  3n  flDregon 

stering  through  our  little  glen,  like  some  mad 
bacchanalian  half  crazed  by  mountain  vintage,  plung- 
ing over  rocky  terraces,  leaping  mossy  logs,  whisking 
around  curves,  surging  and  eddying  against  ferny 
banks,  clutching  in  its  white  arms  dead  limbs  and 
branches,  held  one  instant,  hurled  broadcast  the  next, 
as  vaulting  over  them  with  a  tossing  of  green  billows 
and  flying  spray  it  reels  stormily  on,  bent  upon  still 
madder  pranks. 

You  may  be  inclined  to  call  this  ranting,  and  per- 
haps think  it  inspired  by  this  same  mountain  vintage ; 
but  you  have  never  seen  the  mountain  streams  of 
Oregon.  Ours  seemed  so  wild  and  elfish  that  we  im- 
mediately christened  it  "Deer  Leap."  When  we 
came  here,  a  high,  strong  bridge  spanned  it.  In  one 
of  these  recent  night  carousals  that  bridge  was  lifted 
bodily  and  borne  away,  and  no  plank  of  it  was  ever 
seen  again.  One  day  last  winter,  after  heavy  rains, 
Deer  Leap  was  tearing  and  plunging  down  from  the 
hills,  floating  a  mighty  drift  of  logs,  stumps,  boards, 
and  such  debris,  when,  seeing  Mary  and  me  watch- 
ing from  the  bank,  in  sudden  fury  he  hurled  the 
whole  mass  at  us,  and  there  it  remains  to  this  day  a 
monument  to  his  madcap  play. 

In  summertime,  when  canopied  by  green  leaves 
and  swinging  vines,  with  birds  singing  glad  halle- 
lujahs above  it,  and  the  elusive  speckled  trout  dart- 
ing through  it,  then  indeed  is  our  brook  a  thing  of 
beauty  and  a  joy  forever.  However,  it  is  but  one  of 

[36] 


jfrom  3n  flDregon  Kancft 

the  many  charms  of  this  old  place.  We  have  lovely 
springs  of  pure  soft  water.  One  of  these,  high  upon 
the  hill  back  of  the  house,  gushing  from  a  rocky 
ledge  beneath  a  clump  of  pines,  comes  tumbling 
down  in  a  mossy  fern-shaded  rill,  to  slip  beneath  the 
shadows  of  a  near-by  alder  and  creep  into  an  ugly 
wooden  spout,  and  thence  be  carried  to  a  still  uglier 
wooden  trough  stationed  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen 
porch. 

Upon  our  arrival  here,  a  well-mannered  stream  of 
water  about  two  inches  in  diameter  was  flowing  from 
this  spout;  but  one  morning  after  the  rains  I  heard 
Tom  exclaim,  as  he  stepped  out  on  the  porch,  "  Great 
Scott !  isn't  this  getting  a  little  bit  too  gay  ?  "  I  looked 
out,  and,  lo !  a  stream  of  water  as  thick  as  the  stove 
pipe  was  gushing  from  that  spout  and  dashing  half- 
way across  the  porch.  Tom  had  to  construct  a  sort 
of  breakwater  of  boards  in  front  of  it,  in  doing 
which  he  was  half  drowned,  shouting  at  me  through 
the  roar  of  the  breakers,  "Life  may  seem  extinct, 
but  don't  give  up  till  you've  rolled  me  over  a  barrel ! " 
Not  being  familiar  with  the  habits  of  mountain 
springs,  this  "  rampage  "  surprised  us ;  but  we  after- 
ward learned  that  they  are  as  much  given  to  "  ram- 
pagin' "  as  was  Mrs.  Joe  Gargery  herself. 

Lower  down  the  hill,  at  one  side  of  the  front 
lawn,  under  a  giant  alder,  another  spring  pours  from 
the  cavern-like  side  of  a  big  rock,  and  goes  dancing 
away  over  a  stony  path  to  lose  itself  in  the  green 

[37] 


Jfrorn  an  Oregon  Kancft 

pasture  lands  below.    Upon  the  massive  rock  over- 
hanging this  spring  we  might  have  carved  — 

"The  mountain  air 
In  winter  is  not  clearer,  nor  the  dew 
That  shines  on  mountain  blossoms." 

The  water  of  this  spring  is  most  delicious,  icy- 
cold  and  pure ;  "  the  more  you  drink,  the  more  you 
want."  Here,  too,  are  growing  wonderful  ferns  — 
long  feathery  fronds,  just  such  as  we  buy  of  the  flo- 
rists at  home,  who  call  them  "  Boston  ferns."  Here 
they  are  found  growing  wild,  three  or  four  feet  high 
—  a  reckless  profusion  of  them  in  all  moist  shady 
places.  Think  of  this,  and  groan,  the  next  time  you 
pay  a  dollar  for  a  little  stingy  one  six  inches  high ! 
The  moss  about  this  spring  is  exquisite,  as  if  woven 
by  fairy  fingers,  of  tiny  velvety  ferns.  In  fact,  the 
Oregon  moss  is  wonderful;  it  covers  trees,  stumps, 
rocks,  fences,  and  even  the  roofs  of  houses.  Tom 
says  the  moss  business  is  overdone  here ;  but  I  like  it. 

At  one  side  of  the  lawn  is  a  large  orchard,  bearing 
fine  apples,  pears,  peaches,  plums,  prunes,  and  cher- 
ries ;  and  winding  through  this  bower  of  lusciousness 
is  a  little  path  leading  to  the  garden  —  a  pretty  place, 
all  embowered  by  trees,  giving  it  that  touch  of  seclu- 
sion so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  gardener.  Just 
above  the  garden  is  another  spring,  hidden  away  in 
a  tangle  of  greenery.  Back  of  the  house  is  a  pre- 

[38] 


Jftom  3n  SDregon 

cipitous  hill,  crowned  with  fir,  laurel,  and  young  oak 
trees,  the  latter  draped  with  pendent  fringes  of  sil- 
very moss,  in  fine  contrast  with  the  green  of  the  firs ; 
while  straggling  down  toward  the  house  are  trees  of 
various  kinds,  clumps  of  bushes,  and  tall  brown 
ferns,  with  a  perfect  network  of  dewberry  vines  cov- 
ering the  ground  and  forming  a  snare  for  the  foot  of 
the  unwary.  Here,  too,  is  fine  old  oak  with  mistletoe 
growing  in  its  branches.  Oh,  the  joy  of  having 
that  lovely  mistletoe  growing  right  in  one's  own 
dooryard ! 

"  The  mistletoe  hung  in  the  castle  hall, 
The  holly  branch  shone  on  the  old  oak  wall !  " 

We  shall  use  buckthorn  for  holly,  and  when  the 
blessed  Yuletide  comes  round,  this  old  rancho  shall 
blossom  as  the  rose. 

Across  the  rear  of  the  yard,  half-way  up  the  hill- 
side, are  the  remains  of  an  old  fence,  which  we  shall 
remove,  except  one  portion  of  it,  which  is  formed  by 
a  fallen  log.  This  must  have  been  one  of  the  mon- 
archs  of  the  forest.  It  is  seventy-five  feet  long,  and 
so  thick  that  when  Tom  stands  on  one  side  of  it  and 
I  on  the  other,  we  are  not  visible  to  each  other.  In 
winter  it  is  a  mossy,  lifeless  thing;  but  in  summer 
vines  clamber  over  it,  running  along  the  top  and  fes- 
tooning its  sides;  chattering  squirrels  play  over  it, 
and  tuneful  birds  meet  there  for  choir  rehearsals. 

[39] 


Jfrom  an  Dregott  IRancft 

Our  woodland  is  truly  a  "  forest  primeval,"  as  wild 
as  an  African  jungle.  From  a  hilltop  beyond  Deer 
Leap,  when  the  skies  are  clear,  we  can  plainly  see 
Mount  Jefferson,  Mount  Hood,  and  the  Three  Sis- 
ters, yes,  and  Mary's  Peak.  Why  it  is  called  that  I 
don't  know,  when  it  has  its  pretty  Indian  name, 
"  Chintimini." 

I  have  now  indifferently  sketched  for  you,  dear 
Nell,  a  few  of  the  more  pronounced  attractions  of 
this  old  place;  but,  believe  me,  it  has  hundreds  of 
minor  though  no  less  witching  ones.  Nature  in  mak- 
ing this  mountain  region  dealt  out  grandeur  and 
beauty  with  a  lavish  hand.  I  cannot  say  as  much  for 
man's  work,  for  surely  here  are  the  ugliest  buildings 
that  ever  blotted  and  disfigured  a  landscape.  Rickety, 
weather-beaten,  and  boarded  up  and  down,  they  are 
so  irredeemably  ugly  that  one  longs  to  sweep  them 
off  the  face  of  the  earth.  There  are  two  buildings, 
however,  made  of  logs,  that  I  would  spare,  as  they 
seem  to  fit  in  with  their  rugged  surroundings.  One 
is  a  big,  wide,  roomy  barn ;  the  other  a  "  root  house." 
I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  such  a  thing  before,  and 
inquiring  of  the  lord  of  the  manor  what  it  was  for, 
I  was  told  that  "  it  was  a  place  to  root  in  when  you 
feel  like  it"  —  an  evasive  reply  which  proved  to  me 
that  he  knew  no  more  about  it  than  I  did.  This 
building,  hidden  by  climbing  vines  and  green  moss, 
is  picturesque  as  an  old  ruin ;  only  it  is  no  ruin  —  it 
is  good  for  a  century  yet. 

[40] 


JFrom  3n  flDregott  Uancft 

The  fences  on  the  place  are  of  rails,  which  would 
be  all  right  and  appropriate  if  only  they  were  good 
rails ;  but,  alas !  the  storms  and  stress  of  the  seasons 
have  borne  so  heavily  upon  them  that  they  have 
mostly  given  up  trying  to  be  fences,  and  have  lain 
down  in  discouraged  and  straggling  heaps  along  the 
boundary  lines.  We  are  told  that  this  ranch  was  well 
kept  up  by  its  former  owners  when  they  were  living 
here,  but  since  then  has  been  sadly  misused  and 
abused  by  tenants.  It  now,  I  fancy,  resembles  the 
"  abandoned  farms  "of  the  East.  At  first  these  un- 
sightly things  worried  us ;  but  soon  there  came  to  us 
a  reproving  voice  from  the  everlasting  hills,  saying, 
"  Oh,  you  poor  anxious  atoms  away  down  there  in 
the  glen,  fretting  your  small  souls  because  of  an 
inartistic  cowshed,  forgetting  God's  beauty  all 
around  and  above  you.  Are  you  not  ashamed?" 
We  were  ashamed,  and  these  things  at  least  are  no 
longer  "  a  speck  in  our  sunshine." 

Many  of  our  eastern  friends  have  written  us  that 
the  Oregon  rains  must  be  terrible,  the  many  gray 
days  pressing  heavily  upon  us  poor  mortals  cooped 
up  in  our  little  mountain  home.  But  this  sympathy 
is  not  altogether  called  for.  In  the  first  place,  the 
rains  here  don't  come  with  a  wind  that  wraps  your 
skirts  about  you  like  a  winding  sheet  and  turns  your 
umbrella  inside  out.  They  fall  straight  down  from 
the  heavens,  in  a  decent,  unhurrying  way.  Having 
six  months  to  do  it  in,  there  is  no  occasion  for  haste 

[41] 


Jftom  an  2Dce0on  Rancft 

or  bluster.  As  to  wet  days  being  depressing  here, 
they  are  not  half  so  much  so  as  in  a  city  where  one 
sees  only  wet  muddy  pavements  and  a  black  sea  of 
bobbing  umbrellas.  Now,  as  this  happens  to  be  a 
rainy  day,  let  me  describe  it  to  you.  In  the  old  stone 
fireplace  pitchy  pine  knots  are  blazing  like  campaign 
torches,  filling  the  big  room  with  a  ruddy  glow. 
Outside  are  gray  skies,  falling  rain,  and  sodden 
earth ;  but  from  a  window  here  by  my  desk,  I  see  the 
wet  leaves  of  the  orchard  trees  ablaze  with  color,  and 
through  this  vista,  just  below,  an  old  fence  over- 
grown with  blackberry  and  wild  rose  bushes ;  beyond 
it,  a  narrow  strip  of  gray  stubble  land,  splotched  with 
the  brown  of  dead  ferns  and  weeds;  skirting  its 
farthest  side  is  the  fringing  foliage  of  the  brook,  a 
mass  of  tender  green,  yellow,  and  russet;  and  back 
of  all  this,  the  mighty  hills,  an  unbroken  wall  of  dark 
green,  splashed  with  the  scarlet  and  gold  of  autumn, 
and  just  now  enmeshed  in  purple  mists. 

While  writing  the  last  sentence  or  two,  Nature's 
scene  shifter  must  have  been  busy;  for  now,  as  I 
look,  a  thin  gauzy  veil  of  mist  stretches  straight 
across  these  heights.  Through  this  shadowy  screen 
the  hills  seem  remote,  the  trees  vague  and  spectral; 
the  vivid  hues  of  autumn  have  faded  to  the  late  after- 
glow of  a  summer  sunset.  These  hills  are  my  joy 
and  my  despair.  I  could  cry  with  vexation  when  I 
try  to  picture  them  to  others.  Such  fleeting  and 
changeful  beauty  should  be  sketched  only  by  the 


Jfrom  an  SDregon 

hand  of  a  master.  I  knew  this  all  the  time,  but  fools, 
you  know,  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  and  I 
did  so  want  to  show  you  something  of  this  outdoor 
beauty,  that  you  might  at  least  partially  understand 
why  we  are  not  depressed  in  gloomy  weather. 

As  to  being  "cooped  up"  in  this  little  mountain 
place,  I  should  think  we  were  rather  less  cramped  for 
room  than  those  friends  who  write  us  from  city 
houses  and  "flats."  We  have  our  own  broad  do- 
mains, besides  free  range  of  the  whole  of  the  Coast 
Mountains,  for  here  are  no  "  no  trespassing "  signs 
for  the  unarmed  intruder.  Here,  too,  we  are  free 
from  "the  tyranny  of  clothes."  If  one  feels  a  sud- 
den longing  for  a  walk  in  the  fresh  air,  no  careful 
street  toilet  need  be  made  in  fear  of  critical  eyes,  as 
in  a  city,  where,  Thoreau  says,  "  the  houses  are  so  ar- 
ranged, in  lanes  and  fronting  one  another,  that  every 
traveler  has  to  run  the  gantlet,  and  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  gets  a  lick  at  him."  Here,  with 
rubber  overshoes  added  to  the  indoor  toilet  and  a 
shawl  thrown  over  the  head,  one  is  equipped  for  the 
woods  and  fields,  no  eye  beholding  save  those  of  the 
beasts  of  the  fields  and  the  fowls  of  the  air ;  and  their 
eyes  are  kind,  not  critical.  One  year  of  this  free  life 
in  the  Oregon  hills,  untrammeled  by  conventionali- 
ties, is  better  than  "  fifty  years  of  Europe,"  and  when 
I  leave  these  glorious  solitudes  it  will  be  to  enter 
"that  low  green  tent  whose  curtain  never  outward 
swings." 

[43] 


N  my  last  letter,  Nell,  I  tried  to  picture 
,to  you  some  of  the  beauties  surround- 
ing our  new  Oregon  home;  but  I  do 
assure  you  that  it  was  only  the  preface 
to  this  wonderful  Nature-book  of  the 
hills.  I  would  like  to  tell  you  more  of  them;  but  as 
man  cannot  live  by  scenery  alone,  and  as  you  particu- 
larly want  details  of  our  early  experiences  here,  not 
only  the  lights  but  the  shadows,  I  shall  have  to  go 
back  again  to  those  memorable  days  of  January  when 
we  first  came  here.  Green  fir  seen  upon  the  hills  is  ad- 
mirable ;  but  green  fir  in  the  kitchen  range  is  abomi- 
nable, especially  after  being  soaked  by  rain  for  three 
months.  When  first  put  into  the  stove,  bolstered  up 
with  plenty  of  pine  kindlings,  it  would  blaze  rather 
hopefully,  until  the  moss  had  burned  off  and  the 
kindlings  had  vanished,  when  with  sighing  and  sob- 
bing it  would  shed  a  few  rainy  tears,  turn  black,  and 

[44] 


JFtom  an  SDtegon 

all  would  be  over.  The  most  of  our  packing  boxes 
were  demolished  in  efforts  to  set  the  fir  wood  on  fire, 
but  all  in  vain ;  it  simply  would  not  burn,  and  we  had 
to  go  back  to  cooking  by  the  fireplace.  There  we  did 
fairly  well,  with  a  liberal  supply  of  bark,  the  latter 
burning  well  here,  but  of  no  use  in  the  range.  While 
in  this  slough  of  despond,  a  man  came  one  day  to 
hang  wall  paper  for  us.  Hearing  our  lamentations, 
he  suggested  drying  the  wood  in  the  oven  before 
using  it.  Long  may  that  man  live  and  prosper !  The 
curing  process  helped  wonderfully  —  only  now  the 
wood  was  too  combustible;  it  burned  out  in  a  jiffy. 
We  would  fill  the  stove  full,  leave  it  fifteen  minutes, 
come  back  to  it,  and  not  a  vestige  of  fire  would  be 
left.  We  soon  learned  that  the  stove  must  never  be 
left  alone;  one  must  stand  there,  with  hand  on  the 
throttle,  like  the  engineer  of  a  locomotive. 

The  demand  for  fuel  was  always  greater  than  the 
supply,  though  the  oven  was  kept  filled  with  it  from 
January  to  May,  except  on  baking  days.  Sometimes 
we  would  close  the  oven  door,  forgetting  it  until  re- 
minded by  a  great  crackling,  when,  flinging  the  door 
open,  flames  would  rush  out  in  our  faces,  and  every 
stick  of  the  fuel  would  be  found  ablaze.  I  wonder 
we  didn't  blow  the  stove  up  and  burn  the  house 
down !  Though  we  didn't  know  enough  to  bake  our 
wood  without  being  told,  we  found  out  one  thing  for 
ourselves,  and  that  was  that  when  the  wood  was 
heated  a  pitch  oozed  from  it  that  stuck  to  the  fingers 

[45] 


4Ftom  3n  Dregon 

and  burned  like  hot  sealing  wax.  Even  after  learn- 
ing this  fact,  we  kept  forgetting  it,  and  hurriedly 
reaching  into  the  oven  to  seize  a  stick,  we  would 
shriek  and  dance  around  like  Sioux  Indians.  All 
winter  long  our  hands  were  blistered  and  seared. 
Once  on  the  hand,  the  stuff  stuck  like  a  fiery  adhesive 
plaster,  and  not  all  the  waters  of  "  great  Neptune's 
ocean  "  could  wash  it  off. 

Again  our  man  of  experience  came  to  the  rescue, 
telling  us  first  to  soak  our  hands  in  kerosene  and  then 
wash  them  —  a  helpful  though  not  fragrant  remedy. 
We  learned  other  things  from  our  new  guide,  philos- 
opher, and  friend :  first,  that  the  wood  we  were  using 
was  "dozy"  (we  had  ourselves  observed  that  it  was 
somnolently  inclined);  secondly,  that  if  our  "men 
folks  "  would  cut  or  saw  down  a  big  tree,  we  would 
find  that  the  heart  of  it  would  make  a  roaring  fire. 
Now,  we  had  suspicions  that  neither  of  our  "men 
folks  "  had  ever  felled  a  tree,  which  suspicions  were 
strengthened  by  their  great  activity  in  collecting 
bark,  fallen  limbs,  and  other  woodland  debris,  and 
palming  it  off  on  us  as  something  rather  choice ;  but 
Mary  and  I,  pining  for  the  heart  of  that  big  tree, 
harped  so  long  about  it  that  at  last  the  fagot  gather- 
ers were  spurred  to  action.  At  least  we  judged 
something  was  about  to  happen  from  a  conversation 
in  the  woodhouse,  overheard  by  us,  which  ran  some- 
what as  follows : 

"Ever  file  one?" 

[46] 


JFrom  3n  Oregon  Kancfi 

"No;  did  you?" 

"  No.    What  the  dickens  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Do  ?    We'll  just  file  her,  that's  what." 

Whereupon  began  terrible  rasping,  grating, 
screeching  noises,  which  continued  until  the  perpe- 
trators were  summoned  to  dinner.  During  the  meal 
we  were  told  they  had  been  filing  a  saw.  Though 
painfully  aware  of  the  fact,  Mary  innocently  ex- 
claimed, 

"Filing  a  saw!  I  didn't  suppose  either  of  you 
knew  how." 

"  Know  how  to  file  a  saw ! "  exclaimed  Bert. 
"  Why,  I've  filed  'em,  I  may  say,  from  infancy  up." 

"  Yes,"  chimed  in  his  shameless  associate,  "  and  if 
I  had  a  dollar  for  every  one  I've  filed,  I'd  ask  nothing 
of  J.  Pierpont  Morgan."  Scornful  silence  on  the 
part  of  their  auditors. 

Soon  after  dinner  there  came  a  rapping  at  the 
kitchen  door,  and  there  we  found  the  unblushing 
prevaricators,  on  their  shoulders  a  saw  about  four 
yards  long,  one  carrying  an  axe,  the  other  an  old 
tin  pail  half  full  of  iron  wedges. 

"Whither  away?"  was  asked. 

"  We  are  going,  ladies,  to  hold  '  communion  with 
Nature  in  her  visible  forms/ ' 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  we  are  going  to  draw  near  to  Na- 
ture's heart,  as  it  were,  and  rive  out  a  chunk  of  it  to 
satisfy  your  insatiate  cravings." 

[471 


JFrom  an  2Dregon 

We  were  then  told  that  if  we  would  glance  up 
Mount  Nebo  about  twilight  we  would  behold  a  novel 
and  interesting  scene. 

"  Suppose  neither  of  you  ever  happened  to  see  a 
tree  snaked  out  of  the  woods,  did  you  ?  " 

"  I've  seen  'em  from  infancy  up ! " 

"  Yes,  and  if  I  had  a  dollar  for  —  "  But  our  hear- 
ers had  gone  to  rejoin  the  horses,  which  stood  near, 
literally  wreathed  in  log  chains. 

The  cavalcade  had  not  long  been  gone,  before  the 
rain  poured  down  as  if  the  bottom  had  dropped  out 
of  the  water  tanks  above.  We  pitied  our  men  folks 
then,  and  their  poor  horses  too,  through  that  long 
afternoon.  Sure  enough,  about  dark,  "  silently  down 
from  the  mountain's  crown  a  great  procession 
swept,"  but,  look  as  we  might,  we  could  see  nothing 
being  "  snaked." 

Passing  the  house,  those  misguided  men  looked  so 
miserably  wet  and  bedraggled  that  we  considerately 
refrained  from  commenting  on  "the  novel  and  in- 
teresting scene." 

After  supper,  when  the  inner  man  had  been  re- 
freshed and  the  outer  one  was  basking  in  the  genial 
heat  of  an  open  fire,  the  story  all  came  out.  It  seems 
they  had  found  a  fine  tree  six  feet  through,  and 
thinking  they  might  as  well  "  git  a-plenty  while  they 
were  gittin',"  they  had  tackled  it.  "  Good !  Saw  it 
down,  saw  it  down ! "  But  they  never  got  half-way 
through  the  bark,  because,  as  Bert  explained,  "  Every 

[48] 


JFrom  3n  Oregon  Kancft 

time  I  pulled  on  the  saw  Tom  pulled  against  me." 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Tom,  "  and  what  did  you  do  when 
I  pulled?" 

"  Well,  old  man,  I  said  to  myself,  '  You  don't  get 
the  better  of  me/  so  I  just  braced  my  feet  and  pulled 
too." 

"  If  you  two  men  oughtn't  to  be  in  an  asylum  for 
the  feeble-minded!  The  idea  of  standing  in  a 
drenching  rain  this  whole  afternoon,  trying  to  pull 
a  saw  away  from  each  other ! " 

"  But,  Mary,  we  didn't  pull  the  saw  all  the  after- 
noon ;  when  we  found  we  had  struck  a  lignum  vitae 
instead  of  a  fir  tree,  we  gave  it  up.  But  we've  got 
you  some  dandy  wood ;  we  will  bring  it  down  in  the 
morning." 

"Snake  it  down?" 

"I  hardly  know — what  do  you  think,  Bert?" 

"Better  not,"  said  that  gentleman,  frowning 
thoughtfully.  "  Your  team  is  a  little  bit  too  light." 

The  next  morning  I  saw  them  unloading  their  pre- 
cious fuel — a  preponderance  of  bark,  and  a  few 
small  mossy  poles,  about  such  as  one  uses  to  support 
aspiring  lima  beans.  I  called  Mary  to  come  and 
see  the  "  dandy  wood." 

"  It's  just  what  I  expected ! "  she  cried  indignantly. 
"  Snake  it  down !  I  guess  not,  unless  they  had  poked 
those  little  sticks  through  the  links  of  the  chain." 

"  But,  Mary,  they  could  have  bunched  them  like 
cheese  straws,  you  know." 

[49] 


JFrom  3n  SDregon 

Then  we  got  to  laughing,  and  fancying  all  sorts  of 
nonsensical  things. 

"  Wouldn't  these  mossy  little  twigs  be  lovely  stand- 
ing about  the  room  in  vases,  burning  like  those 
Chinese  incense  tapers  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  or,  cut  in  short  lengths  and  tied  with  baby 
ribbon,  they  would  make  stunning  favors  for  a 
green  luncheon." 

"  And  nothing  could  be  better  if  we  were  going  to 
banquet  the  Modern  Woodmen." 

In  the  fun  of  conjuring  up  ludicrous  uses  for  our 
new  wood,  we  quite  forgot  that  it  was  not  the  most 
desirable  for  fuel.  There  is  nothing  like  a  good 
laugh  to  float  one  over  difficult  places. 

Well,  we  never  got  our  big  tree  until  summer. 
Then  the  men  were  told  by  a  wise  Nestor  of  the 
hills  that  by  boring  holes  in  these  large  trees  and 
firing  them  from  the  inside,  they  could  soon  burn 
them  down.  They  eagerly  pounced  upon  that  idea, 
and  since  then  we  have  had  excellent  wood. 

Our  souls  were  tried  not  only  by  fire,  but  by  flour. 
Not  that  the  flour  was  poor,  for  we  ate  good  bread 
made  of  the  same  kind  in  the  little  town  where  we 
stopped  when  we  first  arrived.  But  the  women  there 
assured  us  that  we  would  have  much  trouble  with  it 
until  we  learned  how  to  handle  it;  and  they  were 
right.  This  flour  was  made  from  what  is  here  called 
"  soft  wheat."  Put  it  on  the  kneading  board,  and  it 
would  spread  over  it  like  batter  on  a  griddle  and  stick 

[50] 


Jfrom  3n  2Dre0on 

there  like  glue.  Try  to  remedy  this  by  adding  flour 
to  make  a  stiffer  dough,  and  it  would  crack  open 
while  baking  and  come  out  of  the  oven  as  hard  as  a 
baseball.  As  to  cutting  it,  you  could  as  easily  slice  a 
slab  of  wood.  No,  it  must  be  mixed  soft,  and  must 
not  lie  motionless  an  instant  on  the  board,  or  it  had 
to  be  scraped  up  with  a  knife.  We  remembered  hear- 
ing that  Boston  bakers  pound  the  board  with  the 
dough,  instead  of  kneading  it,  and  this  method  we 
adopted,  though  it  required  the  alertness  and  dex- 
terity of  an  East  India  juggler.  We  would  clutch  the 
mass,  raise  it  high  toward  heaven  with  one  hand, 
with  the  other  dash  flour  on  the  board,  then  bring 
down  the  dough,  swift  as  lightning  snatch  it  up 
again,  dash  on  more  flour,  whack  it  down  again,  and 
so  continue  to  the  bitter  end.  I  tell  you,  Nell,  when 
bread  was  mixed  in  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs 
the  china  rattled  and  the  earth  trembled. 

Mixing  was  not  the  only  trouble;  the  bread 
wouldn't  rise  after  it  was  mixed,  though  swathed  and 
swaddled  in  wrappings  until  it  assumed  such  pro- 
portions that  we  had  to  call  upon  the  men  to  carry  it 
to  the  fireplace,  where  it  much  resembled  an  enor- 
mous hassock  cosily  placed  in  expectation  of  a  call 
from  some  Brobdingnagian  of  the  hills.  When  the 
time  came  to  make  it  into  loaves,  one  would  natu- 
rally expect  to  find  some  slight  recognition  of  these 
warm  attentions ;  but  no  —  there  it  was,  as  inert  and 
unresponsive  as  a  mixture  of  Portland  cement  or 


Jfrom  an  Oregon  JRancft 

putty ;  and  when  baked  it  had  a  crust  as  thick  as  fir 
bark  and  as  hard. 

One  day  while  moulding  it  into  loaves,  I  thought, 
"  I'll  just  use  some  of  this  for  biscuit,  and  give  this 
family  a  surprise ; "  and  I  did.  First,  the  loaves  were 
baked,  and  put  out  on  the  table,  where  they  looked  as 
if  they  had  just  been  exhumed  from  the  ovens  of 
Pompeii.  Then,  with  beating  heart,  I  placed  my 
great  venture  in  the  oven.  After  twenty  minutes  of 
thrilling  suspense  the  door  was  cautiously  opened. 
The  loaves  seemed  dried  instead  of  baked,  and  were 
about  half  their  original  size.  Just  as  I  was  debating 
in  my  mind  whether  it  would  not  be  nobler  to  burn 
them  and  thus  end  all,  the  men  came  in  and  Tom's 
eye  was  arrested  by  my  layout.  "  Hello !  Look  at 
Katharine's  geological  exhibit  —  four  big  round 
boulders.  And  what  might  these  little  jokers  be? 
Geodes?  No,  they  can't  be  geodes;  not  the  right 
color.  What  would  you  call  them,  Bert?" 

Scrutinizing  them  carefully,  Bert  thought  they 
"  might  be  a  sort  of  ammunition." 

"  Not  shells,"  said  Tom,  hitting  them  a  resounding 
whack  with  a  carving  knife ;  "  they  're  too  solid,  and 
there  is  no  fuse  to  'em.  Might  be  paper  weights." 

Wiping  tears  from  my  eyes  with  my  pitchy  fingers, 
hermetically  sealing  one,  I  looked  up  with  the  other 
and  said, 

" '  You  are  pleased  to  be  merry,  gentlemen/  " 

"  Come,  Bert,  we've  got  to  fly.    When  Katharine 

[52] 


JFrom  3n  2Dregon  Kancft 

begins  to  talk  like  Shakespeare,  she's  mad;  but 
I'll  just  take  one  of  these  things  out  to  the  wood- 
house  and  bust  it  open  and  see  if  I  can  find  out  what 
it's  made  of." 

We  wrestled  with  this  flour  for  six  long  months. 
While  the  bread  improved  some,  it  was  never  good. 
One  day  the  groceryman  gave  Tom  a  different  kind 
of  flour,  saying  he  had  ordered  it  specially  for  "  new- 
comers/' as  they  all  complained  of  the  other.  When 
I  learned  that  this  too  was  Oregon  flour,  I  had  small 
hope  of  it;  but,  to  my  surprise,  it  made  light,  soft, 
tender  bread,  which  was  eaten  with  praise  and 
thanksgiving. 


kID  you  ever  try,  dear  Nell,  to  conduct 
culinary  operations  without  either  milk 
or  eggs?  We  had  five  weeks  of  this 
experience,  while  wrestling  with  the 
problems  of  fuel  and  flour  of  which  you 
have  been  told.  Our  nearest  neighbors  lived  a  mile 
away,  and,  besides,  they  had  no  milk  to  spare ;  con- 
sequently "after-dinner"  coffee  was  in  vogue  here 
at  every  meal.  The  hill  hens  had  suspended  business 
for  the  winter,  and,  having  forgotten  to  order  eggs 
when  that  last  trip  to  market  was  made,  we  had  now 
to  suffer  the  penalty.  Having  neither  milk  nor  eggs, 
our  cuisine  showed  a  painful  dearth  of  such  delica- 
cies as  custards,  omelets,  puddings,  etc.  This  we 
could  have  borne  without  complaint;  but  as  nearly 
all  vegetables,  to  be  palatable,  require  either  milk  or 
cream,  the  lack  of  these  articles  was  a  real  hardship. 
Then,  too,  being  so  far  from  the  markets,  we  could 

[54] 


jFrom  an  fiDregon  Kancft 

get  no  fresh  meats.  We  had  smoked  ham  and  break- 
fast bacon  —  only  these  and  nothing  more.  The  first, 
unaccompanied  by  eggs,  we  soon  tired  of,  especially 
as  it  happened  to  be  salt  as  brine,  tough,  and  hard ; 
the  bacon  was  good  enough,  but  I  defy  any  one  to 
face  it  three  times  a  day  for  five  weeks  and  not  loathe 
it.  But  few  vegetables  were  brought  out  to  the 
ranch,  the  wagons  being  so  heavily  loaded  with  other 
thjngs.  We  supposed  they  could  be  bought  in  the 
neighborhood ;  but  here  again  we  were  disappointed. 

The  farmers  had  disposed  of  their  surplus  stock 
earlier  in  the  season,  reserving  only  sufficient  for 
their  own  use ;  and  it  was  not  long  until  our  supply 
was  reduced  to  apples  and  potatoes.  I  see  that  I 
have  made  a  vegetable  of  the  apple,  but  that's  no 
worse  than  calling  potatoes  "  spuds,"  as  people  do 
here.  You  may  be  sure  that  members  of  this  family 
suffered  nothing  from  apprehensions  of  gout.  How 
often,  when  looking  through  our  empty  cupboard, 
did  we  think  sorrowfully  and  sympathetically  of 
Dame  Hubbard's  dog! 

At  breakfast,  while  munching  adamantine  bread, 
bacon,  and  "  spuds/'  we  were  apt  to  have  tormenting 
visions  of  hot  griddle  cakes  and  maple  syrup,  or  of 
juicy  porterhouse  steaks,  and  eggs  variously  served. 
At  dinner,  with  the  breakfast  menu  repeated,  some 
one  was  sure  to  ask,  "  How  would  you  like  a  good 
big  slice  of  rare  roast  beef,  with  nicely  browned 
sweet  potatoes?"  "Yes,  or  scalloped  oysters,  or 

[55] 


jFrom  3n  flDregon 

chicken  pie,  and  a  nice,  crisp,  cool  salad?"  —  and  so 
on  down  through  an  imaginary  bill  of  fare. 

Lest  you  wonder  why  we  didn't  "  go  to  town  "  and 
renew  our  supplies,  let  me  remind  you  of  the  im- 
passable condition  of  the  roads.  For  weeks  during 
the  late  winter  never  a  team  was  seen  passing. 
Finally,  when  almost  the  "  last  herring  smoked  upon 
the  coals/'  two  hungry  men  arose  in  desperation, 
declaring  they  would  at  least  find  some  cows  and 
chickens.  In  the  chill  dawn  of  the  following  morn- 
ing, in  a  pouring  rain,  they  started  on  their  mission. 
They  were  gone  until  five  o'clock  in  the  evening ;  then 
the  now  familiar  mountain  cry,  "Whoo-whoo," 
came  echoing  through  the  woods.  As  I  opened  the 
door,  Tom  shouted,  "  Katharine,  run  out  in  the  road 
and  head  off  these  cows ! " 

I  knew  by  the  tone  and  the  voice  that  this  was  a 
"hurry-up"  call;  so,  throwing  the  omnipresent 
shawl  over  my  head,  I  dashed  out  of  the  house,  and, 
as  self-preservation  is  the  first  law  of  life,  snatched 
up  a  pole  that  was  propping  up  the  limb  of  a  peach 
tree,  then  flew  down  the  path  and  out  of  the  gate  into 
the  middle  of  the  road,  and,  standing  there  in  mud 
and  rain,  looked  the  field  over.  Away  down  the  hill, 
in  the  road,  stood  the  horses  and  wagon ;  in  the  latter 
I  discerned  several  chicken  coops,  from  which  pro- 
truded long  feathered  necks,  with  red-combed 
squawking  heads.  The  pasture  bars  were  down,  and 
standing  near  them  was  Tom.  A  little  higher  up  the 

[56] 


JFrom  3n  ffl)tegon 

hill  a  road  branches  off,  and  there  Bert  was  sta^ 
tioned.  Coming  full-tilt  toward  me  were  three  big, 
wild-eyed  galloping  cows,  with  two  very  young-look- 
ing, spindle-shanked  calves.  I  admit  I  was  scared; 
but  remembering  my  great-grandsires  who  fought 
in  the  Revolution,  I  raised  the  pole  high  in  air,  like  a 
flagstaff,  and  stood  firm.  On  came  the  bovine  bri- 
gade until  within  a  few  rods  of  me,  when  suddenly 
they  halted,  tossed  up  their  heads,  and  stared  at  me. 
I  hardly  believe  they  thought  I  was'  alive ;  perhaps 
they  mistook  me  for  the  statue  of  "  Liberty  enlight- 
ening the  World."  We  stood  there  looking  at  each 
other,  until  Tom  yelled,  "Well,  why  don't  you  do 
something?  We  haven't  had  a  bite  to  eat  since 
breakfast."  Now,  I  knew  no  more  than  the  man  in 
the  moon  what  to  do ;  but  just  then  one  of  the  cows, 
one  with  awful  threatening  horns,  began  pawing  up 
the  mud,  so  I  called  back,  "  I  think  this  big  spotted 
one  is  cross !  "  "  Cross  nothing !  She's  gentle  as  a 
lamb,"  Tom  answered.  She's  an  old  cow,  I  thought, 
the  mother  of  the  other  two.  Then  she  must  be  the 
grandmother  of  these  calves,  and  it  would  be  rather 
disrespectful  to  pounce  upon  the  old  lady  with  this 
pole.  So  I  just  continued  to  "  hold  her  with  my  glit- 
tering eye."  Again  Tom  roared,  "  She  won't  hurt 
you,  I  tell  you ;  she's  just  scared  and  rattled ! " 

It  did  not  seem  to  me  that  the  grandmother  was 
scared.  She  had  now  advanced  several  paces,  and 
was  not  only  throwing  mud,  but  had  lowered  her 

[57] 


jfrom  an  SDregon  Bmtcft 

head  and  was  shaking  her  horns  at  me  in  a  way  quite 
disconcerting.  That  she  was  "rattled"  seemed 
plausible;  certainly  her  manners  were  not  reposeful. 
Thinking  I  must  do  something,  I  pounded  the  road 
a  little  with  my  pole,  throwing  some  mud  myself.  At 
this  the  enemy  moved  forward  in  solid  phalanx,  the 
younger  cows  now  shaking  their  horns  also ;  where- 
upon, forgetting  my  valorous  ancestors  of  the  Revo- 
lution, I  drew  a  trifle  nearer  the  rail  fence,  and,  again 
raising  my  standard  high  in  air,  said  in  a  hoarse,  loud 
voice,  "  Huey,  cows !  Huey  there ! " 

No  effect  whatever,  except  upon  the  man  down  the 
road.  "  Coin'  to  stand  all  night  lookin'  at  'em  ?  "  he 
yelled.  "  Why  don't  you  close  in  on  'em  ?  " 

"  Close  in  on  'em,  indeed !  That's  all  very  well, 
sir,  from  your  point  of  view,  at  the  tail  end  of  this 
caravan,"  I  thought;  "but  up  here  the  outlook  is  dif- 
ferent, facing  these  three  steaming  monsters,  with 
six  threatening  horns  and  twice  as  many  eager 
hoofs;"  and  I  remarked  softly  to  myself,  "I  won't 
do  it." 

On  the  grassy  embankment  at  the  roadside,  quite 
near  me,  stood  one  of  those  grotesque  Noah's-ark 
calves.  "  I  '11  just  close  in  on  you,  my  young  friend  : 
you  will  likely  turn  and  run  back  down  the  road, 
where  I  trust  your  perspiring  relatives  may  follow 
you.  I  knew  better  than  to  jump  at  the  creature  with 
my  big  pole;  so,  trailing  it  behind  me,  I  advanced 
cautiously,  with  one  hand  extended,  saying  in  sweet 

[58] 


4From  an  2Dte0on 

tones,  "Pretty  little  calfie" —  a  piece  of  the  basest 
flattery  when  applied  to  the  sorry-looking  object  be- 
fore me.  One  step  more  forward  —  and  what  did  that 
ungentle  idiot  do  but  give  a  wild  snort,  leap  like  a 
deer,  whirl  square  about,  and  plunge  through  the  rail 
fence  —  not  through,  either,  for  it  stuck  fast  between 
the  rails,  bawling  at  the  top  of  its  voice.  Mercy,  Nell, 
you  ought  to  have  seen  grandma  then !  She  ploughed 
across  that  muddy  road,  scrambled  up  the  green 
bank,  and,  standing  before  the  prisoner  at  the  bar, 
literally  tore  up  the  sod.  Both  daughters  charged 
after  her,  all  bellowing,  all  pawing  sod ;  and  even  the 
other  calf,  that  wasn't  in  the  affair  at  all,  added  his 
wailings,  while  away  down  the  road  the  scared  chick- 
ens squawked  louder  than  ever. 

Seeing  the  ruin  I  had  wrought,  I  climbed  to  the  top 
of  the  fence,  ready  to  drop  on  the  other  side  if  future 
developments  should  make  it  necessary.  Up  the  road 
came  both  men  running,  and  I  thought,  "Now, 
Katharine,  you'll  catch  it ! "  But,  to  my  great  sur- 
prise, not  one  solitary  word  did  they  utter,  not  even 
to  each  other.  Half  starved,  soaked  through  and 
through  with  misery,  they  seemed  dumbly  desperate. 
Rain  trickled  in  streams  from  their  rubber  coats  and 
hats ;  their  boots  were  muddy  to  the  tops,  mud  was  on 
their  faces  and  in  their  hair,  as,  silent  and  grim,  with 
stoical  fortitude  they  pulled  and  tugged  at  that 
vicious  little  centipede  of  a  calf.  Tom  had  seized  it 
by  its  tail  and  hind  feet,  while  Bert  had  climbed  the 

[59] 


Jftom  3n  S)re0on  Kancft 

fence  and  gathered  up  its  sprawling  front  legs,  and 
together  they  were  folding  it  over  like  an  omelet, 
poking  and  pulling  it  sideways  through  the  fence. 
At  last  the  sufferer  was  released,  but  only  to  be  in- 
stantly seized  again  by  both  men,  who,  clasping  it 
in  a  damp  embrace,  bore  it  off  down  the  hill,  with 
all  those  bellowing  bovines  at  their  heels.  As  that 
solemn  procession  filed  away,  I  had  a  haunting  sense 
of  having  seen  something  like  it  in  the  sculptured 
frieze  of  some  great  public  building.  I  watched 
until  their  burden  was  safely  shoved  into  fields 
Elysian,  the  cows  all  walking  in  after  it,  and  then 
three  bars  were  put  up  —  only  three,  a  piece  of  care- 
lessness which  led  to  future  trouble.  I  was  pained  to 
observe  the  other  calf  still  walking  around  outside 
the  fence. 

Thinking  I  had  done  about  all  the  good  I  could,  I 
was  going  to  retire  quietly  from  the  scene,  when  Tom 
called  out,  "  Drop  that  pole  and  come  and  help  catch 
this  other  calf."  A  hungry  man  is  seldom  a  polite 
one.  Obeying  orders,  I  advanced  unarmed  down  the 
hill.  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  their  plan  was  to  sur- 
round and  capture  the  calf  where  it  stood,  in  a  fence 
corner.  I  have  a  quick  discernment  of  field  tactics 
—  inherited,  most  likely.  The  unsuspecting  victim 
was  gazing  longingly  through  the  fence  at  its  mother, 
not  noticing  the  environing  forces;  but  just  as  we 
were  about  to  close  in  upon  it,  it  looked  up,  and,  see- 
ing three  frightful  ogres  with  arms  outstretched, 

[60] 


JFrom  3n  2Dregon  Rancft 

gave  a  terrified  leap  through  the  cordon  and  went 
flying  up  the  branch  road.  "  The  dun  deer's  hide  to 
fleeter  foot  was  never  tied."  Away  we  all  went  in 
hot  pursuit.  Not  being  much  of  a  sprinter  myself, 
I  was  soon  left  far  in  the  wake.  Suddenly  the  pur- 
sued, descrying  a  big  pile  of  brush  by  the  roadside 
and  mistaking  it  for  a  rock  of  refuge,  turned  aside 
and  dashed  into  it,  and  there,  lacerated  by  thorns  and 
briers,  it  began  to  roar.  Hearing  a  bellowing  and  a 
thundering  of  hoofs  behind  me,  I  glanced  back,  and 
saw  tearing  up  the  road  every  last  one  of  those  in- 
furiated cows.  A  steep  hill  slopes  down  to  one  side 
of  the  road;  and  up  this  height  dashed  the  now  pole- 
less  daughter  of  the  Revolution,  where,  climbing 
high  among  the  roots  of  a  giant  upturned  fir  tree,  she 
surveyed  the  scene. 

Just  then  a  strange  thing  happened.  I  saw,  as 
plainly  as  I  now  see  this  paper,  the  stage  of  a  theater 
in  a  far  distant  city,  and  standing  out  upon  a  jutting 
cliff  the  tall  picturesque  figure  of  Meg  Merrilies. 
Beyond,  through  trees  and  rocks,  was  a  faint  glimpse 
of  a  sullen  sea;  while  immediately  below  her  was  a 
dark  narrow  glen  lit  up  by  gypsy  campfires.  Though 
at  the  time  this  seemed  strange,  I  now  see  that  the 
outlook  from  my  lofty  perch  very  naturally  recalled 
this  half-forgotten  scene.  Night  was  now  coming 
on;  low-lying  mists  upon  the  meadow  gave  to  it  in 
that  half-light  a  look  of  the  sea;  all  about  me  were 
the  same  dark  hills,  and  below  was  just  such  a  little 

[61] 


jFrom  an  flDregon 

glen  as  I  had  seen  in  my  vision.  There  were  no  rocks 
and  no  campfires,  but,  instead,  a  big  brush  pile,  teem- 
ing with  life,  a  confused  jumble  of  rubber  coats, 
hoofs,  and  horns,  and  in  its  center  the  struggling  calf 
sinking  deeper  at  every  lunge.  Clawing  over  it  were 
its  would-be  captors ;  on  the  outskirts  those  roaring 
bedlamites  tossing  the  brush  with  hoofs. and  horns. 
Dead  ferns  and  wild  blackberry  vines  clinging  to  her 
horns,  the  aged  one  looked  a  dangerous  Nemesis  — 
and  was,  too,  for  she  had  to  be  beaten  back  with 
brush.  Doubtless  Thomas  would  now  have  been 
glad  of  my  pole.  Finally  the  pitfall  yielded  up  its 
victim,  which  was  carried  to  a  low  place  in  the  fence, 
and  gently  dropped  into  the  fold.  As  soon  as  its 
voice  was  hushed,  that  concord  of  sweet  sounds  died 
away,  the  cows  became  submissive  and  were  easily 
driven  back  into  the  meadow,  and  once  again  sweet 
peace  descended  on  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs. 


JSI  the  morning  following  the  "round- 
up" of  our  new  cows,  while  breakfast 
was  being  prepared,  Tom  sallied  forth 
with  a  bright  new  tin  pail  to  do  the 
milking.  The  cook,  while  striving  to 
feel  hopeful  of  the  result,  had  secret  misgivings, 
doubting  very  much  whether  the  gentleman  had  ever 
milked  a  cow,  as  we  had  never  before  owned  one; 
knowing,  also,  that  if  such  were  the  case  he  never 
would  admit  it,  and,  if  doubts  were  expressed,  he 
would  at  once  begin  to  talk  about  that  summer  he 
"  worked  for  Uncle  Jim/'  It  seems  that  when  a  lad 
of  twelve  he  spent  one  summer  on  his  uncle's  farm; 
and  if  he  then  did  all  the  things  he  now  thinks  he 
did,  he  must  have  been  a  marvel  of  boyish  industry 
and  activity.  Those  seem  to  have  been  the  red  letter 
days  of  his  life;  perhaps  there  budded  then  a  love  of 
country  life  that  eventually  led  to  the  possession 

[63] 


Jfrom  an  2Dregon 

of  this  mountain  home.  He  has  talked  of  that 
blessed  summer  all  through  the  years,  and  I  must 
confess  there  have  been  times  in  my  life  when  those 
reminiscences  seemed  a  burden  and  a  weariness. 
Now,  when  he  reverts  to  the  subject,  I  can't  help 
thinking  of  the  never-ending  regrets  of  Mrs.  Blim- 
ber  "that  she  had  not  known  Cicero,  and  talked 
with  him  in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum,  beautiful 
Tusculum."  Rather  than  risk  the  revival  of  this 
Arcadian  dream,  I  pretended  to  believe  that  Tom 
could  milk. 

After  an  absence  of  about  an  hour  he  came  in,  and 
from  where  I  stood  I  could  see  nothing  in  the  pail. 

"Haven't  you  milked?" 

"  Sure ! "  he  answered,  waving  the  pail  before  me. 

"  Good  gracious !    Is  that  all  ?  " 

"Of  course.    How  much  did  you  expect ? " 

"Well,  I  should  think  two  cows  ought  to  give 
more  than  a  pint  of  milk." 

"No;  this  is  just  about  right  when  the  calves  are 
with  them." 

In  a  day  or  two  stalls  were  made  for  those  vora- 
cious calves,  and  they  were  put  on  half -rations.  Then 
I  ventured  to  remark,  "Now  you  will  get  milk 
galore." 

"  Well,  yes ;  I  ought  to  get  a  little  more."  The  in- 
crease, however,  was  scarcely  noticeable,  \vhich  he 
explained  by  saying  the  cows  wouldn't  "  give  down  " 
— "they  never  do  when  first  separated  from  their 


Jfrom  an  2Dre0on 

calves."  I  believed  this  to  be  a  bit  of  suddenly  in- 
spired fiction  to  cover  his  own  shortcomings,  but 
managed  to  hold  my  peace.  I  kept  hoping  and  wait- 
ing for  several  days,  and  then  one  morning  when  he 
appeared  with  the  usual  quart,  I  quite  forgot  myself, 
and  blazed  forth  with,  "Tom  Graham,  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  know  how  to  milk !  " 

You  should  have  seen  his  look  of  indignant  sur- 
prise! It  was  equal  to  Sairey  Gamp's  when  the 
existence  of  her  beloved  Mrs.  Harris  was  doubted. 

"  Know  how  ?  I  guess  you  forget  that  summer  I 
worked  for  Uncle  Jim ! " 

"  No ;  I  have  never  been  allowed  to  forget  it.  I 
suppose  you  milked  a  dozen  cows  then,  night  and 
morning,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"No,  ma'am,  I  didn't;  I  milked  five." 

"If  you  did,  it  was  so  long  ago  that  you  have  for- 
gotten the  art." 

"No,  milking  is  like  swimming;  the  accomplish- 
ment, once  acquired,  is  never  forgotten."  Presently 
he  added  thoughtfully,  "  Speaking  just  now  of  Uncle 
Jim  reminds  me  —  and  I  had  forgotten  to  tell  you 
about  it  —  that  I  was  down  in  the  field  the  other 
morning,  when  suddenly  out  rang  the  clear  notes  of 
a  bird,  the  same  that  I  heard  a  thousand  times  that 
summer,  tilting  and  lilting  from  the  tops  of  the  tall 
rosin  weeds.  Here  I  found  him  poised  on  a  branch 
of  vine  maple ;  but  it  was  the  very  same  bird,  and  for 
about  a  minute  I  was  a  straw-hatted,  barefoot  boy, 

[65] 


JFrom  an  2Dre0on  Xtatufc 

going  for  the  cows  in  Uncle  Jim's  pasture,  wading 
through  tall  slough  grass  higher  than  my  head.  I 
could  almost  hear  it  rustling  and  feel  the  rushes 
crawling  under  my  bare  feet  with  a  sort  of  squeaking 
sound,  and  all  about  me  were  those  chipper  little 
birds  swaying  upon  the  rosin  weeds,  singing  as  if  to 
split  their  throats.  I  tell  you,  it  is  worth  coming  to 
Oregon  just  to  hear  and  see  that  bird  again." 

This  boyhood  bird,  so  strangely  reappearing  in 
Tom's  later  life,  seemed  to  afford  him  such  genuine 
pleasure  that  I  decided  to  accept  it  as  a  flag  of  truce, 
and  suspend  hostilities  over  the  problem  of  the  cows. 
In  about  another  week  the  novice  mastered  the  art 
of  milking,  the  cows  suddenly  began  to  "  give  down," 
and  from  that  time  on  we  had  abundance  of  milk. 

Mary  assured  me  they  had  had  about  the  same 
experience  at  their  place.  I  have  not  told  you  that 
Bert  took  possession  of  their  new  home  the  day  after 
the  late  "round-up."  Following  the  last  load  of 
goods  was  Bert,  leading  the  big  spotted  cow  —  more 
correctly  speaking,  the  big  spotted  cow  leading  Bert. 
Not  quite  liking  her  tricks  and  manners,  I  was  glad 
to  learn  that  she  was  his  property  and  not  ours.  She 
had  already  acquired  the  name  of  Medusa.  It  came, 
Bert  said,  as  an  inspiration;  watching  me  standing 
motionless  so  long,  facing  her,  he  believed  I  had  been 
turned  into  stone. 

The  cows  had  no  special  names ;  all  alike  had  been 
called  "  bossy."  Now,  surely  a  good  cow  is  entitled 

[66] 


Jfrom  an  flDregon 

to  the  distinction  of  a  name.  Anyway,  we  believe  in 
naming  them,  and  everything  else  on  the  place  that 
is  alive.  We  fancy,  in  our  isolation,  that  with  names 
they  seem  more  human  and  companionable.  We  see 
so  few  people  up  here  in  the  woods  that  we  have  to 
talk  a  good  deal  to  the  animals,  lest  we  forget  the 
habit  of  speech  and  all  become  mutes.  So  our  two 
cows  were  named  Dolly  Varden  and  Maud  Muller; 
but  after  a  long  acquaintance  with  Maud,  we  found 
she  was  not  the  guileless,  rustic  beauty  she  appeared. 
She  was  tricky,  a  schemer,  and  rather  unprincipled, 
opening  gates  and  barn  doors  with  her  horns,  helping 
herself  to  provender  at  unseasonable  hours,  or,  if  at- 
tracted by  the  waving  of  feathery  carrot  and  green 
turnip  tops  beyond  a  fence,  she  simply  threw  off  the 
upper  rails,  and  leaped  over  the  remaining  ones,  as 
though  she  supposed  those  things  were  planted  for 
her  especial  use,  but  through  some  oversight  her  at- 
tention had  not  been  called  to  them.  Owing  to  these 
characteristics,  we  felt  obliged  to  change  her  name 
to  Becky  Sharp.  The  calves  are  known  as  Buttercup 
and  Trilby,  if  you  please  —  and  you  needn't  laugh! 
You  are  thinking  of  the  muddy  little  wretches  that 
arrived  here  that  rainy  night ;  but  you  must  remem- 
ber this  is  written  at  a  later  date,  and  those  calves 
grew  in  beauty  with  the  springtime,  and  when  June 
came  they  were  as  lovely  as  her  roses.  Such  win- 
some, witching  things  you  never  saw;  and  if  only 
Rosa  Bonheur  were  alive,  and  I  could  have  her  do 


Jfrom  an  aDregon  Bancft 

them  in  oil  (for  nothing),  I'd  send  you  their  pictures 
as  proof  that  this  description  is  no  flattery. 

But  I  seem  to  have  drifted  far  from  my  subject, 
and  must  go  back  and  tell  you  of  my  first  butter-mak- 
ing. For  several  days  cream  had  been  accumulating ; 
and  at  last  came  a  morning  when  there  was  enough 
for  churning.  A  pleasurable  excitement  seized  me, 
and  I  was  all  eagerness  to  begin  the  work.  I  had 
never  in  my  life  made  a  pound  of  butter,  but  you 
know  there  is  a  certain  charm  connected  with  every 
new  experience  —  although  at  this  later  date  my 
ardor  has  considerably  diminished.  After  breakfast, 
I  found  our  ranchmen  had  an  errand  at  a  sawmill 
back  in  the  mountains.  Mary  was  going  with  them, 
and  I  was  urged  to  go  too ;  but  that  churn  was  draw- 
ing me  like  a  lodestone  —  not  for  worlds  would  I 
have  left  it.  I  had  learned  that  a  part  of  the  road 
they  were  going  over  ran  along  a  narrow  ridge  on 
either  side  of  which  was  a  deep  canyon,  a  sort  of 
Scylla  and  Charybdis  affair ;  and  having  a  horror  of 
such  a  road,  I  made  that  my  excuse  for  not  going, 
not  mentioning  the  churning,  intending  to  surprise 
them  agreeably  on  their  return,  both  families  being 
quite  destitute  of  butter. 

As  soon  as  they  were  fairly  off,  I  rushed  for  the 
churn  —  a  barrel-shaped  revolving  affair,  which,  it 
seemed  to  me  while  lugging  it  in,  ought  to  have  been 
built  on  rollers  or  at  least  on  casters.  Then  came  the 
treasured  can  of  cream,  the  butter  bowl,  ladle,  mould, 

[68] 


Jfrom  3n  2Dregon  Kandb 

oiled  paper,  long-handled  spoon,  jar  of  salt,  ther- 
mometer, teakettle  of  hot  water,  and  two  pamphlets 
on  the  art  of  butter-making.  One  of  the  latter  had 
come  with  the  churn,  giving  full  instructions;  the 
other,  equally  explicit,  was  from  a  state  agricultural 
college.  I  sat  down  to  consult  these  authorities. 

"  First  scald  the  churn."  Easy  enough !  I  poured 
in  the  boiling  water,  and  began  whirling  the  crank 
with  great  enthusiasm,  when  out  popped  the  cork 
with  a  noise  like  the  report  of  a  Winchester,  followed 
by  a  revolving  stream  of  hot  water  and  steam.  The 
operator,  though  scared  and  trembling,  stuck  to  her 
post,  knowing  the  thing  must  be  stopped,  and  stopped 
with  the  nozzle-end  up,  though  several  revolutions 
were  made  before  this  could  be  accomplished.  The 
cork  had  blown  to  the  other  side  of  the  room ;  but  I 
dared  not  leave  my  post  to  get  it  —  I  felt  sure  that  if 
the  churn  were  released  it  would  turn  over  and  begin 
spouting  again.  It  was  plain  the  mountain  must  go 
to  Mahomet;  so,  pushing  the  sputtering  and  pulsat- 
ing machine  across  the  floor,  I  reached  and  replaced 
the  cork,  hooked  the  churn  back  in  its  place,  and  then 
paused  to  consider  —  thankful  indeed  that  my  pre- 
cious cream  was  not  in  the  machine  when  the  explo- 
sion occurred. 

Turning  again  to  my  butter  lore,  I  read :  "  Remove 
cork  at  intervals  to  allow  escape  of  steam."  In  my 
eagerness  to  get  down  to  business,  I  had  overlooked 
that  detail.  Well,  the  cork  had  removed  itself,  and 

[69] 


4Ftom  an  SDregon 

that  part  of  the  affair  was  over;  so  I  proceeded  to 
mop  up  the  overflow,  looking  ruefully  at  my  new 
wall  paper. 

The  next  step  was  the  heating  of  the  cream,  which 
my  authorities  said  must  be  tested  with  the  thermom- 
eter. Then  came  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life.  I 
felt,  perhaps,  as  does  a  great  scientist,  shut  up  in  his 
laboratory,  engaged  in  some  wonderful  chemical  ex- 
periment that  may  startle  a  waiting  world.  Slowly 
the  temperature  of  the  cream  rose  to  62^°.  I  could 
not  understand  its  slowness  —  mine  having  risen  to 
at  least  150°  in  the  same  time.  The  critical  moment 
had  arrived.  The  rich  Jersey  cream  was  poured  into 
the  churn,  the  lid  clamped  down,  the  cork  pounded 
in  with  the  potato  masher.  The  operator,  seated, 
with  book  in  hand,  now  read :  "  Eighty  revolutions 
per  minute  the  proper  rate  of  speed."  To  a  lady  of 
quiet  habits  that  seemed  "  the  pace  that  kills,"  but  at 
it  I  went  with  might  and  main,  whirling  the  crank  so 
fast  I  couldn't  count ;  it  might  have  been  eight  hun- 
dred instead  of  eighty  times  per  minute.  Anyway,  I 
got  scared,  thinking  a  hot-box  might  be  the  next 
feature;  so  I  slowed  down  to  perhaps  eight  revolu- 
tions a  minute. 

More  comfortable  now,  I  looked  at  the  churning 
equipment,  thinking  all  butter  makers  should  have  a 
dairy  room  where  such  things  could  be  kept,  and  not 
need  to  be  collected  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe  when  wanted.  I  rather  fancied  I'd  like  such 

[70] 


Jftom  an  2Dtegon 

a  one  as  Queen  Victoria  had  at  Balmoral  Castle; 
but  that  seemed  almost  too  aspiring.  I  then  fell 
back  on  Mrs.  Peyser's,  as  described  by  George  Eliot : 
"  The  dairy  was  certainly  worth  looking  at.  A  scene 
to  sicken  for  in  hot  and  dusty  streets  —  such  coolness, 
such  purity,  such  fresh  fragrance  of  new-pressed 
cheese,  of  firm  butter,  of  wooden  vessels  per- 
petually bathed  in  pure  water;  such  soft  coloring  of 
red  earthenware  and  creamy  surfaces,  brown  wood 
and  polished  tin,  gray  limestone  and  rich  orange 
rust  on  the  iron  weights  and  hooks  and  hinges/' 
Then,  naturally,  I  fell  a- thinking  of  the  bewitching 
Hetty  —  of  the  rose-petal  cheeks,  the  round  dimpled 
arms  and  pretty  hands  tossing  and  patting  the  but- 
ter, losing  myself  in  the  tragical  story  of  that  young 
life  until  recalled  to  consciousness  by  a  queer  slush- 
ing about  of  the  cream  in  my  own  churn.  Looking 
in  the  glass  at  the  top  of  the  churn,  I  was  terrified  to 
see  that  it  was  quite  clear,  and  the  book  said,  when 
that  occurred,  "  STOP,"  in  letters  about  the  size  of 
those  seen  at  railroad  crossings. 

Trembling  with  the  fear  that  all  was  lost,  I  nerv- 
ously removed  the  lid,  glanced  in,  and,  lo !  there  was 
the  butter,  just  as  predicted  by  the  sages,  "golden 
globules  half  the  size  of  a  kernel  of  wheat."  Oh, 
the  pride  of  Miss  McBride,  as  she  drew  off  the  but- 
termilk, rinsing  the  butter  three  times  in  pure  spring 
water,  scalding  and  cooling  the  bowl,  taking  out  that 
mass  of  golden  glory,  sprinkling  salt  over  it,  and 

[71] 


jfrom  an  SDtegott 

then  trying  desperately  to  "  work  it,"  like  one  to  the 
manner  born. 

My  instructions  were,  after  the  first  working,  to 
set  it  aside  for  five  hours ;  this  seemed  a  cruel  delay, 
but,  mine  "  not  to  reason  why,"  I  was  about  to  obey 
orders,  when  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  my  excite- 
ment I  had  forgotten  to  taste  it.  And  then  I  had  a 
surprise  and  shock  I  am  not  likely  to  forget.  As 
the  flavor  reached  my  palate,  I  recoiled  and  stood 
aghast.  How  could  anything  so  beautiful  possibly 
taste  so  vile  ?  It  surely  had  not  absorbed  the  odors 
of  cookery,  as  the  cream  had  been  kept  out  in  the 
pure  air.  Yet  there  it  was  —  a  bad-tasting,  ill-smell- 
ing lump  of  yellow  hypocrisy.  At  first  I  thought 
I'd  carry  it  up  the  yard  to  a  thicket  of  salmon  bushes 
so  dense  no  human  being  could  penetrate  it,  hurl  the 
mass  of  iniquity  into  its  most  secret  fastnesses,  then 
hurry  back  and  remove  all  traces  of  the  late  struggle 
before  the  "  return  of  the  natives,"  and  never  tell  a 
living  soul  about  it.  But  I  soon  saw  that  scheme 
would  never  work.  Tom  had  been  as  proud  as 
Punch  over  that  cream ;  he  would  miss  it,  and  expla- 
nations would  be  called  for.  So  I  sat  down,  and 
mused  drearily  upon  the  Wandering  Willies'  return 
and  the  horrible  surprise  awaiting  them. 


[72] 


(AVING  recovered  somewhat  from  the 
partial  anaesthesia  that  had  come  upon 
me  from  inhaling  the  fumes  of  my 
astonishing  butter,  I  was  seated  before 
the  fireplace  trying  to  recover  myself, 
when  the  excursionists  rushed  in,  jubilant  over  the 
picturesque  scenery  of  their  drive. 

"  Oh,  but  you  missed  a  good  thing  by  not  going 
with  us !  "  they  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  retorted  the  angel  of 
the  hearth. 

"We've  had  the  time  of  our  lives!" 
"  So  have  I,"  I  tranquilly  replied. 
"  What  doing  —  trout-fishing  ?  " 
"Just  compose  yourselves  and  I'll  show  you/' 
Then  I  went  out  and  brought  in  the  butter.    As  the 
napkin  was  lifted,  disclosing  that  mass  of  golden 

[73] 


JFtom  an  SDtegon 

deception,  there  arose  a  universal  chorus  of  delight 
and  admiration. 

"What  lovely  butter!"  cried  Mary.  "Did  you 
really  make  it  yourself?" 

"  Why,  you're  a  butter  maker  indeed ! "  exclaimed 
Tom.  "We're  proud  of  you!" 

My  knowledge  of  the  baleful  aftermath  kept  me 
reasonably  calm  under  this  shower  of  compliments. 
"Now  you  must  all  come  out  in  the  dining  room 
and  sample  it,"  I  said. 

Supplied  with  forks,  each  took  a  generous  dose. 
Then  they  glared  at  each  other,  dismay  and  disgust 
upon  every  countenance. 

"Shades  of  the  mighty!"  cried  Tom.  "What 
flavoring  did  you  use  —  sage,  parsley,  bergamot,  or 
wild  onions?" 

"  Seems  more  like  paregoric  or  linseed  oil,"  sput- 
tered Bert. 

Mary  —  I  suppose  through  sympathy  for  me  — 
said  nothing,  but  I  observed  that  she  was  drinking 
water  copiously. 

"Are  you  sure,  Katharine,  that  you  didn't  use 
Epsom  or  Rochelle  salts  in  this  stuff?" 

"  No,  Tom ;  the  salt  used  was  the  right  brand." 

"Well,  what  the  dickens  does  ail  it?" 

No  one  being  able  to  diagnose  the  case,  we  all  sat 
down  around  that  diabolical  bowl  and  held  a  sort  of 
round  table  talk.  The  pronounced  herby  flavor 
suggesting  the  pasture,  the  men  remembered  that 

[74] 


jfrom  an  Oregon 

quantities  of  mint  grew  there ;  also  dandelion,  dock, 
English  yarrow,  sorrel,  and  similar  things.  Of 
course,  the  cows  had  eaten  them,  and  this  was  the 
direful  result.  During  this  conference  it  became 
known  that  everyone  had  noticed  a  peculiar  tang  to 
the  milk,  but,  through  loyalty  to  the  cows,  none  had 
spoken  of  it. 

"And  now,  fellow  citizens/7  said  Tom,  "what 
disposition  are  we  to  make  of  this  delectable  pot- 
pourri ?  " 

"Well,  Bert  will  take  a  part  of  it,  and—" 

"  Not  by  a  good  deal ! "  interrupted  that  gentle- 
man, hastily. 

"  It  was  your  own  proposal ! " 

"Yes,  but  you  must  remember  that  was  before 
taking." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  I  replied  with  wounded  dignity, 
"the  product  of  our  dairy  is  not  forced  upon  our 
friends." 

"  For  which  praise  God,  from  whom  all  blessings 
flow!"  retorted  that  irreverent  individual. 

"  Well,  then,  this  butter  must  be  sold." 

"  Katharine,  you  are  beside  yourself ;  much  churn- 
ing hath  made  you  mad!  Are  you  so  lacking  in 
moral  principle  as  to  sell  what  you  yourself  cannot 
eat?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  am.  I  fancy  Oregonians  are  accus- 
tomed to  this  flavor  in  early  spring  butter  and  rather 
like  it." 

[751 


jFtom  an  Oregon 

"  You'll  never  catch  me  in  the  busy  marts  of  men 
with  this  stuff  for  sale." 

"Of  course,  not  as  our  own;  it  must  be  disposed 
of  anonymously  or  under  a  nom  de  plume.  You 
take  it  to  the  metropolis,  lay  in  your  grocery  sup- 
plies, then  say  quite  innocently,  '  Oh,  by  the  way,  a 
lady  sent  in  some  butter  with  me;  came  near  for- 
getting it.'  Produce  it,  and  then  fly  for  your  life." 

"  But  those  men  know  all  the  butter  makers  of 
the  country,  and  that  groceryman  will  ask,  '  Whose 
butter  is  this  ? ' " 

"  Then  look  him  square  in  the  eye  and  say,  '  Mrs. 
Jacob  Ruggles's  butter/  Whereupon  he  will  frown 
reflectively,  saying,  '  Ruggles,  Ruggles  —  I  can't  re- 
call any  Ruggles  up  your  way.'  Tell  him  they  are 
newcomers  from  the  Kentucky  bluegrass  region." 

"Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive," 

sighed  Mary. 

"  That's  so,  Mary ;  we're  getting  tangled  in  a 
labyrinth  of  lies.  Let's  try  a  new  tack.  How  would 
this  do?  You  remember,  Katharine,  that  set  of  old 
tin  candle-moulds  that  I  raked  out  from  under  the 
porch?  Well,  say  we  melt  this  stuff,  mould  it  in 
those  things,  make  Roman  candles  of  it,  and  then 
throw  them  on  the  market  about  the  Fourth  of  July. 
I'm  sure  they'll  go  off  with  a  boom." 

[76] 


Jfrom  an  SDregon  Kancft 

With  this  brilliant  suggestion  the  conference 
broke  up. 

And  now  you  have  our  first  experience  in  butter- 
making.  The  surprise  was  never  eaten;  Tom  used 
it  for  axle  grease  —  to  my  lasting  humiliation.  Two 
or  three  weeks  later  the  butter  suddenly  became 
sweet  and  delicious.  Then  I  knew  the  joy  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner  when  the  dead  albatross  fell  from 
his  neck. 

But  it  occurs  to  me  that  in  your  eastern  home  you 
will  be  in  the  swirl  of  holiday  festivities  when  this 
rigmarole  reaches  you,  and  will  scarcely  have  time 
to  read  it.  Up  here  in  the  Oregon  hills  there  is  none 
of  that  "  Christmas  feel  in  the  air"  that  Riley  speaks 
of,  and  we  can  hardly  realize  that  the  event  is  but 
three  days  off.  Thinking  of  it  one  cannot  help  long- 
ing a  little  for  brilliantly  illuminated  streets  and 
stores,  spectacular  show  windows,  the  hurrying  and 
jostling  throng  of  Christmas  shoppers,  the  bundle- 
laden  crowds  of  the  streets  and  trolley  cars,  the  art 
exhibits,  theaters,  concerts,  and  the  fine  Christmas 
music  of  the  churches.  What  would  I  not  give  to 
hear  once  again  the  deep  rolling  waves  of  harmony 
from  a  big  pipe  organ,  thrilling  and  uplifting  the 
soul !  But  perhaps  most  of  all  just  at  this  time  we 
miss  our  dear  old  fun-loving  friends,  dropping  in 
at  all  hours,  brimming  over  with  bright  talk  of  secret 
plans  and  projects.  Here  we  have  none  of  that  com- 
panionship. You  will  think  it  incredible  when  I  tell 

[77] 


JFtom  an  fflHegott 

you  that  since  last  July  I  have  not  spoken  to  a  woman 
—  nor  a  man,  either,  except  the  occasional  work- 
men we  have  employed  —  always,  of  course,  except- 
ing the  other  two  members  of  our  quartet.  The 
most  of  our  near  neighbors  are  men  "  keeping  bach- 
elor's hall"  —  interested,  I  suppose,  in  their  own 
problems  of  life,  with  no  time  for  visiting.  Do  you 
wonder  that  we  talk  to  our  dumb  friends,  the 
animals  ? 

We  were  pleased  when  one  night  last  week  the 
weather  suddenly  turned  cold,  freezing  the  ground 
slightly.  The  next  morning  the  air  was  cool,  crisp, 
and  delightfully  exhilarating,  much  like  our  weather 
at  home  —  only,  of  course,  not  so  cold.  Every 
blade  of  grass,  bush,  twig,  and  tree  had  a  covering 
of  hoar  frost;  even  the  fir  trees  were  decked  in 
white  robes  for  the  coming  Christmas  carnival. 
Later  in  the  day  the  sun  turned  on  his  flashlight, 
showering  all  with  diamond  dust  as  a  finishing 
touch.  Such  purity,  such  whiteness  and  glitter! 
Our  little  hill-guarded  glen  was  for  two  whole  days 
a  veritable  fairyland,  and  we  were  grateful  for  the 
usual  holiday  setting,  though  the  festivities  were 
lacking.  But  on  Saturday  evening  dull  leaden 
clouds  came  up  from  the  sea,  and  an  hour  later  we 
groaned  in  spirit  as  the  rain  poured  heavily  upon 
the  roof.  Sunday  morning  we  found  all  our  frosty 
splendor  vanished;  the  firs  were  in  their  sober 
every-day  gowns,  with  misty  veils  flying  about  their 

[78] 


JFrom  an  Oregon  Rmufi 

heads,  while  down  from  the  hills  floated  a  tearful 
Miserere.  Perhaps,  having  shown  a  foolish  pride 
in  their  snowy  vestments,  Dame  Nature  had  as  a 
punishment  folded  them  away  and  condemned  the 
firs  to  the  "  wearing  of  the  green  "  again,  with  ban- 
ishment from  the  Santa  Claus  pageant. 

That  evening',  as  the  rain  tinkled  against  the  win- 
dow panes,  Tom  said,  "  This  isn't  very  Christmasy, 
but  let's  read  the  old  "  Carol "  again,  just  for  luck." 

For  many  years,  at  this  season,  it  has  been  our 
custom  to  read  aloud  Dickens's  "  Christmas  Carol," 
just  to  get  in  tune  with  the  spirit  of  the  blessed  Yule- 
tide;  now,  looking  through  our  bookshelves,  it  was 
not  to  be  found  —  probably  loaned  to  some  one  in  the 
old  home  and  thus  left  behind.  So  even  that  pleas- 
ure was  denied  us. 

This  afternoon  we  went  up  into  the  forest  in 
search  of  Christmas  decorations.  Cloudy  and  dark 
outside,  inside  the  woods  we  found  the  duskiness 
of  twilight  —  a  restful  solitude,  solemn  and  still. 
Underneath  our  feet  was  a  carpet  of  emerald  moss, 
soft  and  velvety;  overhead,  a  canopy  of  green  so 
dense  that  not  even  a  passing  cloud  could  peer 
through  it.  All  around  us  were  the  graceful,  mo- 
tionless fronds  of  the  magnificent  sword  fern,  and 
pretty  autumn-tinted  climbing  and  trailing  vines. 
Truly,  the  groves  were  not  only  God's  first  temples, 
but  his  best,  truest,  and  holiest  always.  We  felt 
loath  to  leave  such  a  peaceful  sanctuary,  loitering 

[79] 


Jfrom  an  2Dregon 

along  in  its  cool  moist  gloom,  selecting  our  wood- 
land treasures  with  perplexity  because  of  their  be- 
wildering profusion  and  perfection. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  forest,  just  in  its  edge  we 
scared  up  a  flock  of  mountain  quail.  A  whir  of 
wings,  a  flash  of  jaunty  topknots,  and  they  were 
gone.  A  bushy-tailed  squirrel  frisked  along  the  top 
rail  of  the  fence.  A  saucy  blue  jay  scolded  us  from 
the  silvery  moss  of  a  young  oak  —  a  fine  setting  for 
his  military  jacket.  As  we  found  it  raining  briskly 
out  in  the  open,  we  took  a  short  cut  home,  along 
the  crest  of  a  very  high  hill.  We  arrived  none  too 
soon,  for  as  we  entered  the  shelter  of  the  porch  a 
deluge  descended,  and  all  the  evening  it  has  rained 
steadily  and  drearily.  Ordinarily  I  don't  much  mind 
it;  but  just  now  I  long  for  the  old-time  biting,  nip- 
ping cold,  for  crunching  snow,  and  merry  jingling 
sleigh  bells.  Don't  think  that  I  am  homesick ;  I  am 
not,  but  I'd  like  to  be  with  you  all  for  the  next  two 
weeks,  and  then  fly  straight  back  to  my  beloved  hills 
of  Oregon. 


OU  must  not  rashly  infer,  from  the  close 
of  my  last  letter,  that  we  were  envel- 
oped in  a  pall  of  homesickness  on  the 
occasion  of  our  first  Christmas  on  a 
ranch.  It  is  true  that  the  day  was  not  the  maddest, 
merriest  one  of  all  the  year  for  us,  and  perhaps  a 
knowledge  of  the  privations  here  may  heighten 
appreciation  of  the  fullness  of  your  own  holiday 
season.  So  up  goes  the  curtain  for  the  Christmas 
scene  at  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed  Firs. 

First,  you  must  know  that,  as  is  usual  here  in  win- 
ter, the  roads  are  bottomless.  Turkey,  cranberries, 
mince  pie  ingredients,  Christmas  remembrances,  all 
such  essentials,  are  twenty  miles  away,  and  as  un- 
attainable as  if  in  Darkest  Africa.  Neither  friend 
nor  stranger  could  be  hoped  for  within  our  gates. 
The  decoration  of  the  old  house  in  recognition  of 
the  day  seemed  the  only  pleasure  left  us;  and  for 

[81] 


Jfrom  an  SDregon 

this,  Nature  stood  at  our  very  door  offering  a  wealth 
of  greenery.  Every  evil  has  its  good,  and  this  is  one 
of  Oregon's  compensations  for  her  deplorable  roads. 
Bert  and  Mary  were  to  spend  Christmas  with  us. 
The  day  before,  early  in  the  morning,  they  appeared 
upon  the  scene  with  an  old  sled  drawn  through  the 
mud,  laden  with  choice  branches  of  arbor  vitae  and 
mistletoe;  the  driver  walking,  lines  in  hand,  the 
lady  crouching  in  the  green  jungle  like  a  wood- 
nymph.  This  contribution  was  added  to  our  collec- 
tion; then  with  scissors  and  baskets,  Mary  and  I 
took  a  turn  along  an  old  rail  fence  where  wild  roses 
grow  luxuriantly,  cutting  and  filling  our  baskets 
with  the  long  brown  stems,  each  bearing  clusters  of 
scarlet  rose-apples  just  the  tint  of  holly  berries.  You 
who  are  accustomed  to  the  low-growing  wild  rose 
of  the  East  will  accuse  me  of  romancing  when  I  tell 
you  that  those  bushes  were  much  higher  than  our 
heads.  In  the  summer  the  fences  are  hidden  by 
them.  When  showered  by  thousands  of  pink  blooms, 
their  beauty  and  perfume  beguile  one  into  the  belief 
that  these  old  lanes  lead  straight  to  Paradise.  Alice 
Gary  should  have  lived  here;  you  remember  she 
wrote  — 

"  And  if  my  eyes  all  flowers  but  one  must  lose, 
Our  wild  sweet-brier  would  be  the  one  to  choose." 

Bringing  our  seed  treasures  home,  and  judiciously 
mingling  them  with  the  dark  green  of  the  buck- 

183] 


JFrom  Sin  SDregon 

thorn,  a  species  of  holly  was  evolved  rivaling  if  not 
surpassing  the  original.  The  transformation  began 
in  our  main  living  room.  The  ugly  wall  paper  and 
paint  we  found  here  have  vanished,  and  we  have 
sage  green  walls,  with  white  woodwork  except  about 
the  old  fireplace,  which  is  of  black  enamel.  The 
mantel  we  banked  high  with  our  "Oregon  holly," 
with  statuettes  of  "Diana"  and  "The  Wrestlers" 
half  concealed  among  the  leaves.  Just  below  the 
mantel  was  placed  a  long  narrow  picture  in  black 
and  white  —  a  fur-enveloped  Santa  Claus,  with 
frisky  reindeer  dashing  through  a  snowy  moonlit 
forest  (set  in  black) — holly  gleaming  above,  and 
the  fire  below  flanked  on  one  side  by  the  brass  fire 
utensils,  on  the  other  by  a  brass  umbrella  stand  over- 
flowing with  holly  branches.  The  doors  and  low 
bookcases  were  crowned  with  holly;  bunches  of  it 
tied  with  scarlet  ribbon  were  hung  above  pictures, 
and  vases  and  rose  bowls  were  filled.  The  windows 
were  embowered  with  ferns.  An  immense  bunch 
of  mistletoe  suspended  by  white  satin  ribbon  swung 
from  the  center  of  the  room  —  not  the  stiff,  dry, 
crackly  kind  of  other  days,  but  gathered  that  morn- 
ing fresh  from  the  oaks,  and  white  with  berries. 

The  artists  next  advanced  upon  the  dining  room 
—  which,  being  very  dark,  is  the  dungeon  of  this 
house,  white  paint  and  yellow  ingrain  paper  strug- 
gling bravely  to  lighten  the  gloom.  We  made  a 
frieze  of  arbor  vitae  around  the  room,  just  above 


JFrom  an  2Dte0on 

the  picture  moulding,  about  two  feet  in  width  —  a 
task  not  at  all  difficult,  as  we  could  tack  the  branches 
to  the  wall  undismayed  by  fear  of  falling  plaster, 
for,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  plaster  is  not  much 
used  here.  In  place  of  it  we  have  cheesecloth  tacked 
to  the  board  wall ;  and  upon  this  the  paper  is  pasted. 
It  seems  queer,  but  looks  well,  and  one  can  drive  a 
nail  into  it  without  having  a  man  sound  the  wall 
with  a  hammer  in  an  effort  to  find  the  studding. 

Upon  each  end  of  our  sideboard  stood  a  red  jar- 
diniere containing  a  small  Christmas  tree;  between 
them  was  a  punch  bowl  filled  with  the  sweeping 
fronds  of  the  sword  fern;  and  shining  amid  this 
greenery  was  a  hydra-headed  brass  candlestick,  with 
red  candles.  The  table  was  then  formally  laid  for 
the  coming  banquet.  A  centerpiece  being  in  order, 
and  lacking  a  green  jardiniere,  we  took  a  wire  basket 
used  for  frying  croquettes  and  lined  it  with  moss  — 
the  exquisite  kind  that  seems  woven  of  minia- 
ture ferns  —  green  side  out  of  course,  and  well 
pushed  through,  concealing  the  wires.  In  this  we 
planted  our  loveliest  little  fir  tree.  Red  berries  were 
strung  and  festooned  through  its  lower  branches, 
the  upper  ones  embellished  with  tiny  red  candles  left 
over  from  previous  decorations  at  our  eastern  home. 
Placing  this  centerpiece  upon  a  round  mirror  in  the 
center  of  the  table,  we  rested  from  our  labors  by 
the  old  stone  fireplace,  the  one  and  only  interior 
jewel  of  this  mountain  home. 

[84] 


Jfrom  3n  2Dre0on 

Sitting  that  evening  by  our  fireside,  watching  the 
flare  and  flicker  of  the  flames,  we  saw  passing  the 
long  procession  of  dead  and  gone  Christmases 
which,  viewed  in  retrospect,  bring  only  sadness. 
Through  filmy  azure  smoke  came  dear  shadowy 
faces,  looking  back  from  the  misty  borderlands  of 
"That  Undiscovered  Country"  —  faces  one  dare 
not  recall  even  in  memory  lest  that  long-smoulder- 
ing pain  in  the  heart  blaze  up  again  with  all  its  old- 
time  fierceness.  Listening  to  the  rain  and  the  noisy 
fall  of  waters  from  the  hillside  spring,  with  the  loud 
roaring  of  the  mountain  brook  dashing  through  our 
little  glen,  I  felt  as  never  before  the  pathos  of  those 
lines  in  "  In  Memoriam  "  — 

"We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 
And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve." 

The  next  morning,  while  waiting  for  Tom  to 
come  to  breakfast,  I  stepped  out  on  the  porch  to 
see  how  Christmas  really  looked  in  "the  stranger's 
land."  The  scene,  though  not  particularly  enliven- 
ing, might  easily  have  been  worse.  High  up  in  one 
corner  of  the  yard  was  a  melancholy  tangle  of  sal- 
mon bushes,  skirted  on  two  sides  by  an  old  mossy 
paling  fence  and  leafless  trees;  struggling  down 
from  this  were  clumps  of  wet  brown  ferns,  gaunt 
mullein  stalks,  and  frowzy-headed  thistles;  a  gray 
alder  was  bending  over  a  mossy  spring  at  the  end 

[85] 


JFtom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

of  the  porch,  rainy  tears  trickling  through  its  bare 
branches  and  splashing  into  the  waters  beneath. 
Farther  away  were  dark  ploughed  fields;  above 
them,  gray  mists  rolling  stormily  through  the  hills ; 
and  grayer  than  all  else,  "that  inverted  bowl  they 
call  the  sky,"  its  rim  resting  upon  the  green  coronet 
of  encircling  hills.  This  might  seem  a  gloomy  pic- 
ture; in  reality,  it  was  one  of  tender  and  shadowy 
beauty.  The  sublimity  and  picturesqueness  of  Ore- 
gon scenery  triumph  over  the  worst  of  weather. 
Just  then  I  recalled  a  few  snowless  Christmases  at 
home  —  dull  skies,  frozen  ground,  icy  winds  blowing 
a  gale,  and  only  streets  and  houses  to  be  seen.  I 
could  not  but  think  how  infinitely  better  was  this 
wilder  landscape,  with  its  mingled  green  and  gray- 
ness  shut  in  by  the  gray  bowl  above ;  and  then  and 
there  I  gave  thanks  to  our  Heavenly  Pilot  for 
leading  us  into  this  wonderful  "land  o'  glamour." 

When  we  first  came  here  the  scenes  and  sounds 
impressed  me  as  vaguely  familiar  —  almost  as  if  I 
had  lived  here  in  some  forgotten  time  long  past.  I 
had  a  haunting  sense  of  its  being  some  part  of  my 
life's  tangle;  but  such  a  hopeless  snarl  it  seemed,  that 
I  had  about  concluded  to  call  it  a  vagary  of  the 
imagination,  when  one  day  Bert  came  in,  saying, 
"  The  torrent  roars  in  the  vale ;  blue  mists  rise  in  the 
hills;  dark  clouds  rest  upon  the  head  of  Mount 
Nebo."  These  sentences,  as  soon  as  heard,  solved 

[86] 


Jftom  3n  2Dre0on 

my  mental  perplexities.  We  were  living  again  in 
Ossian's  land,  where  in  early  girlhood  I  had  dwelt 
in  fancy  while  turning  the  fascinating  pages  of  an 
old  black-and-gold  Russia  leather  copy  of  Ossian's 
poems.  Bert's  words  were  like  a  searchlight  turned 
upon  the  darkened  past.  The  rosy  skies  of  youth 
flashed  up;  in  that  luminous  atmosphere  floated 
many  changeful  pictures.  The  blue  sea  was  there, 
with  Fingal's  black  bounding  ships  with  their  white 
sails;  warlike  hosts  with  shining  shields  and  spears, 
their  "red  eyes  rolling  on  the  foe."  There  too 
were  the  ghosts  of  Arden,  "  with  stars  dim  twinkling 
through  their  forms."  Mountains  too  were  there, 
and  rocks,  caves,  woods,  pines,  bearded  oaks,  and 
foaming  torrents.  Only  the  most  unimaginative 
could  live  in  Oregon  and  not  hark  back  to  Ossian. 
Hear  how  well  he  describes  our  own  mountain  eyrie : 
"  The  rain  beats  hard ;  the  strength  of  the  mountain 
streams  comes  roaring  down  the  hills."  "  The  blue 
stream  roars  in  the  vale ;  the  thistle  shakes  there  its 
lonely  head ;  the  moss  whistles  in  the  wind."  "  Au- 
tumn is  dark  on  the  mountains;  gray  mists  rest  in 
the  hills."  "A  green  field  in  the  bosom  of  hills." 
"  Rain  gathers  round  the  head  of  Cromla ;  the  stars 
of  the  north  shake  heads  of  fire  through  the  flying 
mists  of  heaven."  Now,  if  you  want  to  know  just 
what  Oregon  is  like,  read  Ossian.  We  are  a  little 
short,  it  is  true,  of  kings,  warriors,  bards,  harps, 
and  ghosts ;  but  all  the  rest  is  here. 


JFrom  3n  SDtegou 

But  I  am  straying  from  my  subject.  Breakfast 
over,  the  Plymouth  Rock  fowl  safely  landed  in  the 
oven,  the  plum  pudding  steaming,  vegetables  pre- 
pared for  cooking,  feeling  then  that  what  Mrs.  Car- 
lyle  calls  "The  Cares  of  Bread"  were  off  my  mind 
for  a  time,  I  said,  "  Tom,  let's  go  now  and  open  our 
Christmas  packages."  We  had  no  gifts  for  each 
other,  owing  to  the  condition  of  the  roads  that  we 
must  travel  to  get  them;  but  many  boxes  and  pack- 
ages from  un forgetting  friends  at  home  had  arrived 
the  previous  week,  and  been  kept  inviolate,  as  is  our 
custom,  until  Christmas  day.  Very  soon  we  were 
cutting  cords  and  untying  ribbons,  with  exclama- 
tions of  delight  and  surprise  as  the  various  tokens 
of  loving  remembrance  came  to  light  —  rainbow 
scarfs  as  filmy  as  mist,  late  fichus,  fancy  aprons, 
exquisite  doilies,  chatelaine  bags,  cushion  covers, 
books,  magazines,  pictures,  calendars,  and  all  such 
things.  One  would  need  to  live  a  whole  year  in 
the  solitude  of  the  woods  to  understand  my  pleasure 
in  again  seeing  novel  and  up-to-date  things  from  the 
great  world  "that  roars  and  frets  in  the  distance." 

One  little  gift  was  rather  funny;  and  though  it 
seems  ungracious,  I  can't  resist  telling  you  about  it. 
It  was  marked  "From  Christine"  —  a  Swedish  girl 
who  lived  with  us  many  years  —  a  bright,  cheerful, 
lovable  girl ;  and  I  wish  to  goodness  she  was  flying 
about  my  kitchen  this  blessed  minute,  singing  those 
queer  old  Scandinavian  songs  with  a  voice  as  clear 

[88] 


Jfrom  3n  SDregon 

and  sweet  as  a  lark's.  Though  Christine  can  sing 
like  a  bird,  she  certainly  is  not  an  art  connoisseur. 
Her  gift  was  an  offering  in  burnt  wood,  represent- 
ing a  large  unhappy  looking  lady  with  a  badly 
swollen  cheek  and  painfully  protruding  eyes.  I  had 
hardly  sufficient  courage  to  look  at  it,  but,  well 
knowing  poor  Christine's  pleasure  in  sending  it,  re- 
solved to  bear  it  as  best  I  could.  With  shuddering 
tenderness  I  lifted  it  to  the  mantel.  "Tom,  look 
at  Christine's  gift — for  us  both,  she  said."  He 
stood  awhile  before  it,  then  turned  away  saying, 
"You  can  have  it  all!" 

The  burnt-wood  figure  was  but  a  forerunner  of 
worse  to  follow.  Being  a  woman,  Nell,  you  can 
understand  the  significance  of  the  next  thing  un- 
earthed —  a  black  knit  shoulder  shawl  with  a  purple 
border. 

"  Oh,  Tom ! "  I  cried,  "  for  mercy's  sake,  look  at 
this!" 

"Well,  what  about  it?" 

"What  about  it?  Why,  don't  you  know  it's  the 
very  first  shaft  from  Old  Age's  quiver?  It  means 
that  my  sear  and  yellow  days  have  come ;  that  — 

'  The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  flutter  —  and  the  bird  is  on  the  wing/  " 

"  Oh,  nonsense ! " 

"Well,  don't  I  know,  Tom?  I've  been  giving 
things  like  this  to  old  ladies  all  my  life." 

[89] 


jFtom  an  SDregon 

"And  now  your  chickens  have  come  home  to 
roost,  and  the  iron  has  entered  your  own  soul !  Who 
sent  it?" 

"Your  Aunt  Sarah,  with  this  package  for  you — 
and  here's  a  note  in  which  she  says,  'You  speak, 
Katharine,  of  living  in  a  box-house.  Now,  I  hardly 
know  what  that  means,  but  it  sounds  cold  and  must 
be  draughty;  so  I  send  you  this  little  cape,  hoping 
you  may  find  in  it  agreeable  warmth/ ' 

Agreeable  warmth!  If  ever  a  woman  lived  who 
found  agreeable  warmth  in  her  first  black-and- 
purple  shoulder  shawl,  history  has  failed  to  men- 
tion her. 

"  What's  this  thing  ?  "  now  came  inquiringly  from 
Tom,  as  he  held  up  a  bib-shaped  scarlet  felt  affair. 

"Mercy!  I  don't  know,  but  perhaps  this  note 
will  explain." 

"Yes,  here  it  is.  'I  have  been  feeling  anxious 
about  Thomas,  working  as  he  does  in  the  rain.  Do, 
please,  see  that  he  wears  the  chest  protector  I  send. 
One  can't  be  too  careful  of  one's  health  at  his  time 
of  life.'" 

"  Now,  madam,  you  added  that  last  line ! " 

"  No,  sir,  here  it  is  in  black  and  white ;  read  for 
yourself." 

Just  then  a  couple  of  umbrellas  passed  the  win- 
dow; the  shawl  was  jerked  from  my  hand  and 
wrapped  round  the  "  life-saver,"  and  both  were  hur- 
riedly tucked  behind  a  sofa  pillow,  as  Tom  whis- 

[90] 


Jfrom  3n  Oregon  Kancft 

pered,  "  Katharine,  don't  say  a  word  about  these 
things  until  we  hear  how  they  came  out" 

After  Bert  and  Mary  had  come  in  and  the  little 
confusion  of  their  arrival  had  subsided,  and  they 
had  carefully  looked  over  our  Christmas  exhibit, 
Bert's  roving  eyes  fell  upon  Christine's  gift. 

"  Hello !  where  did  you  get  the  lumpy- jawed, 
frog-eyed  lady?" 

"You  are  most  intolerably  rude,  Mr.  Stanhope, 
so  harshly  to  criticize  a  work  of  art  found  in  the 
home  of  your  hostess." 

"Art!  did  you  say,  Katharine?  Well,  if  that 
sort  of  art  is  rampant  in  the  world  just  now,  then 
I  am  mighty  glad  I've  taken  to  the  woods." 

Scorning  further  talk  with  this  degenerate  son  of 
the  hills,  I  turned  to  hear  of  Mary's  presents,  listen- 
ing eagerly,  almost  despairingly,  as  she  ran  over  a 
most  acceptable  list.  Thinking  she  had  glided  by  a 
pair  of  slippers  with  suspicious  haste,  I  asked  what 
kind  they  were. 

"  Oh,  just  common  ones." 

"Felt?" 

"No,  cloth." 

"Lined  with  fur?" 

"  No,  lamb's  wool,"  answered  Bert,  with  a  man's 
blundering  frankness. 

Smothering  my  joy,  I  exclaimed  sympathetically, 
"What  a  shame!  Those  are  real  old  ladies'  slip- 
pers." 


JFtom  an  2Dregon 

"  Too  bad !  Too  bad ! "  came  hypocritically  from 
Tom,  poking  the  fire  to  conceal  his  delight. 

"Yes,  they  gave  me  a  shock,"  admitted  the  suf- 
ferer. "Of  course,  I  knew  those  woolen  monstrosi- 
ties were  lying  in  wait  for  me  somewhere  along  the 
years,  but  I  hardly  expected  them  to  bounce  out  just 
yet." 

"Come,  Bert,  walk  up  to  the  confessional!" 

"Oh,  I've  nothing  scary;  old  age  has  drawn  no 
bead  on  me ; "  and  he  rattled  off  an  inoffensive  list. 

Revenge  is  sweet,  and  now  his  wife  said  sweetly, 
"Bert,  you  quite  forgot  to  mention  those  flannel 
pajamas  your  sister  sent  you." 

"Flannel!"  shrieked  Tom.  "Outrageous! 
Red?" 

"  No,  sir,  not  red.  Moonlight  on  the  lake, 
stitched  with  old  gold." 

"But  flannel!  Why,  Bert,  that's  a  gift  for  an 
octogenarian,  for  lean  and  slippered  age  —  'sans 
teeth,  sans  eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything.' ': 

"Go  on,"  wailed  his  victim,  "pour  vitriol  in  my 
wounds." 

"  No,  my  decrepit  flannel-scourged  brother,  I  can't 
consistently  do  that,  because,  you  see,  we've  some 
woolly  woes  of  our  own  to  bear,"  dragging  them 
from  their  lair  and  waving  them  aloft  as  he  sang — 

"Lift  up  your  eyes,  desponding  freemen, 
Fling  to  the  wind  your  needless  fears  ! " 

[92] 


Jfrom  an  flOtegon  Hancft 

When  Mary's  eyes  fell  upon  the  black-and-purple 
disturber  of  the  peace,  her  glee  struck  me  as  little 
short  of  fiendish.  I  hate  to  see  such  malevolence  in 
a  woman ;  though  she  said  tenderly  enough,  "  What 
a  shame,  Katharine !  I  thought  only  real  old  ladies 
wore  such  things ! " 

"  Oh,  you  did  ?  Which  only  shows,  madam,  that 
you  are  living  back  in  the  Oregon  hills;  no  doubt, 
young  girls  are  now  wearing  these  at  their  coming- 
out  parties." 

Meantime  Tom  had  donned  the  scarlet  bib,  and  a 
voice  was  saying,  "  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  feel, 
but  that  thing  would  be  gall  and  wormwood  to  me." 

"Think  so,  Bert?  It  is  balm  of  Gilead  compared 
with  the  note  that  came  from  the  hand  that  dealt 
the  blow." 

Being  all  in  the  same  boat,  we  grew  rather  jolly 
over  it,  and  began  laughingly  to  picture  Christmases 
to  come,  when  we  should  sit  around  this  fireplace 
surrounded  by  such  heart-rending  tokens  of  affec- 
tion as  bottles  of  liniment,  porous  plasters,  hot  water 
bottles,  stout  canes  with  arched  necks,  spectacle 
cases,  red  flannel  nightcaps,  earmuffs,  and  woolen 
scarfs  and  nubias  to  wind  about  our  neuralgic  heads. 
Of  course,  old  people  wouldn't  be  supposed  to  care 
for  works  of  fiction,  and  they  would  send  us  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress"  in  very  large  type,  "No  Cross, 
No  Crown,"  "  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs,"  "  Stepping 
Heavenward,"  and  similarly  consoling  literature. 

[93] 


JFrom  3tt  SDregon 

At  dinner-time  the  heavens  grew  black,  the  rain 
was  pouring  in  torrents,  and  Mary  and  I  were  glad 
that  we  had  previously  arranged  for  lighting  the 
dining  room.  With  candles  and  lamps  blazing, 
radiating  cheerfulness,  our  decorations  showed  up 
finely.  The  "  Plymouth  Rock/'  occupying  a  posi- 
tion of  honor,  tried  hard  to  look  as  big  as  a  turkey ; 
we  stood  by  him  loyally,  praising  his  appearance 
and  reviling  turkey.  When  the  time  for  dessert 
arrived  and  the  steaming  plum  pudding  was  brought 
in,  wreathed  with  real  holly  taken  from  our  Christ- 
mas boxes,  if  any  longings  for  mince  pie  were  felt 
they  were  bravely  repressed.  That  pudding  was 
good,  if  I  do  say  it;  and  the  guests  spoke  up  quite 
boldly,  declaring  that  "Mrs.  Bob  Cratchit"  never 
achieved  a  greater  success.  I  forgot  to  mention  the 
gift  of  a  fruit  cake,  which  was  added  to  our  menu, 
and  a  more  delicious  one  had  never  been  trans- 
ported by  overland  express.  Of  course  we  couldn't 
have  ice  cream  in  an  iceless  land,  but  we  could  and 
did  have  whipped  cream  and  damson  preserves, 
which  everybody  said  "was  enough  sight  better." 
So,  with  a  little  bravado,  our  Christmas  dinner 
passed  off  very  well. 


T94] 


it  now,  Nell,  to  be  my  duty 
•to  give  you  our  experience  in  the  egg 
and  poultry  business.  You  may  re- 
member that  the  day  our  cows  came 
to  their  new  home  several  coops  of  chickens  were 
brought  with  them;  also  that  this  occurred  soon 
after  we  had  moved  here,  when  we  were  mud-bound 
in  these  hills,  with  nothing  to  eat  but  bacon  and 
"  spuds,"  not  having  seen  an  egg  for  weeks.  Well, 
the  following  morning,  bright  and  early,  those  coops 
were  thrown  open,  their  unhappy  prisoners  flutter- 
ing out  to  freedom  with  a  mighty  clamor;  and  as 
they  went  crowing  and  cackling  about  the  old  log 
barn,  their  owners  thought  it  the  sweetest  music 
ever  heard.  All  day  long  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  those  blessed  hens,  and  the  various  ways  of  cook- 
ing eggs.  For  supper  that  night  I  had  planned  such 
an  omelet  as  the  world  has  scarcely  seen;  and  for 

[95] 


jFrom  3n  ffl)regon 

the  next  day,  ham  and  eggs  for  breakfast,  custard 
pie  for  dinner,  and  deviled  eggs  for  supper.  That 
seemed  the  longest  day  I  had  ever  known ;  but  finally 
the  clock  struck  five. 

"  Come,  Tom,  it's  time  to  gather  the  eggs/'  I  said, 
as  I  handed  him  a  peach  basket  nicely  lined  with 
paper. 

"At  Uncle  Jim's  we  always  gathered  them  in 
our  hats,"  he  murmured  reminiscently,  as  he 
marched  off  with  it.  During  his  absence  I  got  out 
the  long-unused  Dover  eggbeater  and  two  bowls  of 
large  size,  put  the  skillet  on  the  stove,  and  stood 
ready  for  the  fray.  After  some  anxious  waiting,  in 
walked  the  gentleman  with  the  basket  bottom-side 
up,  and  never  an  egg  in  it.  I  stood  in  speechless 
amazement,  looking  at  that  empty  basket,  until  Tom 
cried  — 

"  Give  sorrow  words ;  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'er-f  raught  heart  and  bids  it  break." 

"Well,  let  it  break!  that  would  be  better  than 
slow  starvation!" 

"You  are  disappointed  now,  aren't  you,  Kath- 
arine?" 

"Of  course  I  am,  and  I'm  hungry,  and  I  thought 
it  was  a  hen's  business  to  lay  eggs ;  and  as  we  have 
forty-eight  of  them  —  " 

"You  thought,"  he  interrupted,  "that  we  would 
get  forty-eight  eggs,  did  you  ?  " 

[96] 


jFrom  an  2Dre0on  IRancfi 

I'll  just  tell  you  in  confidence,  Nell,  that  I  had 
thought  of  forty-eight  in  my  most  sanguine  mo- 
ments; but  now,  under  the  amused  looks  of  my 
inquisitor,  I  snapped  out,  "Of  course  not;  I'm  not 
so  much  of  an  innocent  as  to  expect  to  leap  from 
nothing  to  such  sudden  affluence ;  but  I  did  look  for 
two  dozen  eggs  or  so  —  and  it  was  not  at  all  unrea- 
sonable, with  all  that  mob  of  hens ! " 

"Come  to  think  of  it,"  meekly  answered  the 
bearer  of  the  eggless  basket,  "  I  have  heard  that  hens 
never  lay  just  at  first,  upon  making  a  change  of  loca- 
tion;" adding  consolingly,  "but  I  guess  we'll  get 
a  half-dozen  or  so  tomorrow." 

Several  more  days  passed,  and  still  there  was  no 
offering  from  the  poultry  yard.  I  then  ventured  to 
ask,  "Tom,  do  you  think  you  feed  the  chickens 
enough  ?  " 

"Feed  them  enough?  They  look  as  if  suffering 
from  goiter;  their  crops  are  puffed  out  like  toy 
balloons." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  feed  them  too  much." 

'''  There  you  go  now ! " 

"  Well,  I  read  today  that  hens  should  forage  for 
a  part  of  their  living." 

"But  if  they  won't  forage,  what  then?  These 
chickens  just  stand  on  tiptoe  round  the  granary,  with 
their  eyes  fastened  on  the  door,  and  never  budge 
from  there  until  it  is  time  to  waddle  off  to  bed." 

A  depressing  silence  followed  this  declaration;  it 

[97] 


Jfrom  an  ffl)regon  Kancft 

certainly  seemed  a  most  baffling  problem.  After 
deep  thought  the  lady  remarked :  "  I've  just  been 
wondering,  Tom,  whether  you  really  know  how  to 
hunt  hens'  nests." 

"Good  gracious,  Katharine!  I  should  think 
almost  any  man  of  average  sense  could,  if  he  would 
bring  the  weight  of  his  intellect  to  bear  upon  it, 
hunt  hens'  nests ! " 

"  You  know  that  I  mean  find  nests ! " 

"I  can  find  these  all  right,  having  made  them 
myself." 

"Oh!  have  you  made  some  nests?" 

"Have  I?  I've  put  up  so  many  boxes  the  barn 
looks  like  a  post  office." 

"  Yes ;  but  the  article  I  read  today  said  that  hens 
liked  secluded  places  for  nests." 

"All  right!  I  am  fully  prepared  for  the  cloister- 
loving  sisters.  I've  made  nests  under  the  mangers 
and  in  old  barrels  standing  in  dark  corners,  one  in 
an  old  copper  boiler,  two  choice  ones  in  a  disabled 
feed  box  —  all  that  mortal  man  can  do  has  been 
done,  and  now  '  Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait.' ' 

But  this  persistent  woman  wasn't  quite  so  serene. 
That  night,  when  the  gentleman  was  about  to  go 
through  the  usual  form  of  looking  for  eggs,  she 
remarked  sagely,  "It  is  more  than  likely  those 
hens  have  hidden  their  nests ;  the  article  I  read  today 
says  they  often  hide  them,  and  I  believe  I'll  go  with 
you  and  help  search  for  them." 

[98] 


Jfrom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

"It's  no  use,  and  it's  awfully  muddy;  but  if  noth- 
ing else  will  satisfy  you,  come  on;  only  do  leave 
that  confounded  basket  —  I'm  sick  of  the  sight 
of  it." 

Permission  being  thus  graciously  tendered,  with 
becoming  humility  I  followed  my  Chesterfieldian 
guide  into  the  domains  of  chickendom.  Then  the 
still-hunt  began.  We  searched  high  and  low ;  inside, 
outside,  and  under  the  barn ;  looking  through  all  the 
sheds,  in  clumps  of  ferns,  and  in  the  low  bushes 
along  the  fence;  peering  into  hollow  logs  and 
stumps  as  gravely  and  anxiously  as  if  searching  for 
the  treasures  of  Captain  Kidd. 

Though  our  quest  was  fruitless,  I  learned  that 
there  are  worse  things  in  life  than  hunting  for 
eggs  on  an  Oregon  ranch.  Those  old  logs  and 
stumps  mantled  in  pretty  green  moss  gave  out  an 
agreeable  damp  woodsy  smell;  the  wet  fir  boughs 
exhaled  a  pleasant  perfume;  and  just  before  us 
rushed  the  noisy  little  brook,  its  clear  waters  flash- 
ing through  the  tawny  tassels  of  alders  and  over- 
hanging willows  decked  with  downy  gray-green 
catkins,  charming  prophecies  of  swift-coming 
spring.  And  suddenly  we  came  upon  spring  her- 
self, in  the  guise  of  a  little  tree  covered  with  delicate 
white  pendent  blossoms.  In  almost  breathless  ex- 
citement we  broke  off  some  of  the  pretty  branches, 
the  first  wild  blooms  we  had  gathered  in  Oregon. 
It  was  to  us  then  a  beautiful  stranger;  we  have 

[99] 


4From  3n  SDregon 

since  learned  that  it  was  the  Indian  peach  tree.  In 
summertime  its  branches  are  laden  with  perfectly 
formed  though  very  tiny  peaches;  they  look  hard 
and  forbidding,  and  lacking  the  courage  of  the 
aborigines,  we  have  not  tasted  them. 

Returning  eggless  to  the  house,  Tom  remarked 
resignedly,  "  Bert's  folks  are  in  the  same  boat ;  that's 
some  comfort ! " 

"No,  they  are  not;  they  have  had  three  eggs. 
Mary  told  me  so  today." 

"Great  Scott!  I  wonder  Bert  didn't  fire  off  a 
twenty-four-pounder  after  such  an  event!" 

The  report  of  those  three  eggs  came  to  Tom  like 
the  explosion  of  a  bomb  in  our  camp.  He  declared 
fiercely  that  something  must  be  done  at  once  to  stim- 
ulate the  industry  of  our  poultry  yard. 

"  Let's  make  them  a  hot  mash,"  I  suggested ;  "  the 
article  I  read  today  advised  it." 

"Great  earth,  Katharine!  If  you  will  kindly 
refrain  from  any  further  mention  of  'that  article/ 
I'll  make  'em  a  hot  mash  every  hour  in  the  day  and 
every  day  in  the  year." 

"  It's  just  possible  that  you  would  overdo  it,"  re- 
torted the  aggrieved  lady. 

The  next  morning  I  prepared  the  "hot  mash,"  a 
terrible  mess  of  corn  meal  and  bacon,  and  while  I 
was  deluging  it  with  cayenne  pepper  the  man  of  the 
house  entered,  and  with  that  phenomenal  memory 
of  his  remarked  that  "  Uncle  Jim's  folks  "  used  black 

[100] 


JFrom  an  flDregon 

pepper ;  so  we  put  in  both.  Then  rummaging  among 
various  condiments,  he  exclaimed :  "  Paprika ! 
That's  hot  stuff !  We'll  give  'em  a  dose.  Mustard, 
stimulating  and  inspiring!  Three  tablespoonfuls 
will  be  about  right.  Ginger !  Now  we've  struck  it ! 
—  our  hens  lack  ginger.  Curry  powder!  What 
think  you  of  that,  Katharine?" 

"  It  may  be  the  one  thing  needful." 

"  All  right,  in  it  goes ! " 

Liberally  salted  and  stirred,  the  dish  was  pro- 
nounced fit  for  the  gods.  With  the  mixture  in  one 
hand,  a  dish  of  cold  boiled  potatoes  in  the  other,  the 
experimenter  then  advanced  hopefully  upon  his 
victims. 

Returning  after  a  brief  absence,  he  was  asked, 
"How  did  those  feathered  frauds  like  their  break- 
fast?" 

"  Oh,  fine ;  they  would  eat  live  coals,  I  guess  —  all 
but  Mrs.  Gummidge"  —  a  name  he  had  given  to  a 
fussy,  complaining  old  hen  in  a  rusty  black  gown. 
"  I  first  deferentially  offered  her  the  potatoes ;  she 
advanced,  mournfully,  slowly  drew  up  one  foot, 
turned  her  head  sideways,  glared  at  them  for  one 
awful  moment,  and  then  turned  scornfully  away." 

"  Why  didn't  you  try  her  with  the  hot  Scotch  ?  " 

"  I  did ;  she  took  one  nip,  and  walked  off  gloomily 
among  the  weeds." 

"Well,  you  see,  Tom,  down  at  Yarmouth  Mrs. 
Gummidge  ate  marine  food,  and  she  isn't  quite  used 

[101] 


Jfrom  an  SDregon  Jftancfc 

to  mountain  fare  yet.     I  really  think  the  poor  old 
thing  is  homesick/' 

A  few  days  later  he  came  in,  shouting  jubilantly, 
"Hurrah  for  Graham's  celebrated  Poultry  Tonic! 
Allow  me,  madam,  to  present  you  with  the  first 
product  of  our  poultry  yard." 

"Oh,  Tom,  an  egg!  How  lovely!  Isn't  it 
white?" 

"  Yes,  and  uncommon  large,  don't  you  think?" 
"  It  is  very  large,  and  such  a  perfect  oval ! " 
"I  am  inclined  to  think  it's  a  double-yolker,"  he 
answered,  eying  it  hungrily. 

"  Alas,  Tom !  the  egg  is  but  one,  and  we  are  two." 
A  momentary  struggle  with  self;  then  he  said 
grandly,  "  You  cook  it  and  eat  it,  Katharine." 

The  offered  sacrifice  I  regard  as  the  noblest  im- 
pulse of  Thomas  Graham's  life,  and  I  do  hope  that 
his  recording  angel  made  a  note  of  it.  I  was  not 
quite  selfish  enough  to  take  advantage  of  his  mag- 
nanimity, and  yet  was  so  lacking  of  the  stuff  of 
which  heroes  are  made  that  I  could  not  sit  calmly 
by  and  see  him  eat  the  precious  egg  alone.  So  it  was 
regretfully  laid  away  until  another  should  be  found. 
After  three  more  days  of  suspense,  Tom  came  in, 
saying,  "What  do  you  think  of  this  insolence?" 
handing  me  an  egg  no  larger  than  a  quail's. 

That  little  egg  instantly  evoked  from  memory  a 
picture  of  the  garden  of  "  The  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,"  and  stalking  about  in  it,  "  with  the  dignity 

[102] 


Jftom  an  Dregon 

of  interminable  descent,"  a  grotesque  little  chanti- 
cleer, followed  by  his  two  little  wives  "  and  the  one 
chicken  of  the  world." 

I  asked  Tom  if  he  thought  it  possible  we  had  be- 
come the  owners  of  one  of  the  Pyncheon  fowls. 

"  I  don't  remember  them." 

"  Yes,  you  do ;  the  heirloom  of  the  Pyncheon  fam- 
ily"—  mentioning  some  of  their  characteristics. 

"Oh,  yes!  Now  I  know;  according  to  tradition, 
they  were  once  the  size  of  turkeys,  but  had  sort  of 
petered  out,  like  the  family,  until  they  became  no 
larger  than  pigeons.  I  fancy  the  three  venerable 
ancestors  having  died  of  old  age,  the  youngest  and 
sole  survivor  of  that  aristocratic  race,  finding  it  dull 
alone  in  the  old  garden,  with  perhaps  a  scarcity  of 
snails  about  Maule's  well,  started  out  to  see  the 
world,  and  has  been  led  by  kindly  fate  to  the  Ranch 
of  the  Pointed  Firs,  and  that  we  now  own  that  re- 
markable chicken,  *  that  looked  small  enough  to  still 
be  in  the  egg,  and  at  the  same  time  sufficiently  old, 
withered,  wizened,  and  experienced  to  have  been  the 
founder  of  an  antiquated  race.' ': 

We  were  so  entertained  by  this  notion  that  our 
disappointment  was  half  forgotten,  though  Tom  did 
say,  "  The  eggs  of  those  ancient  fowls  were  famous 
for  rare  delicacy  of  flavor ;  and  you  might  cook  the 
two  tonight,  if  in  the  flavor  of  the  one  you  could 
find  compensation  for  the  size  of  the  other." 

"  Which  I  couldn't,  so  we'll  just  bide  a  wee." 

[103] 


Jfrorn  an  SHegott  Kancfj 

The  very  next  day  our  impatience  was  rewarded 
by  another  egg  of  normal  size.  We  ate  the  two  with 
cannibalistic  ferocity,  and  looked  longingly  at  the 
shells. 

Being  a  truthful  chronicler,  I  cannot  say  that 
after  this  the  eggs  poured  in  in  great  abundance. 
That  was  our  first  experience  of  owning  chickens, 
and  also  our  first  experience  of  a  scarcity  of  eggs. 
Before  embarking  upon  this  enterprise,  while  gloat- 
ing over  the  pages  of  poultry  catalogues,  we  had 
visions  —  at  least  I  had  —  of  sending  baskets,  and 
even  tubs,  of  eggs  to  the  market.  Alas,  for  human 
hopes,  even  in  the  magical  land  of  Oregon ! 


kY  recent  valuable  experience  with  poul- 
try having  taught  me  how  to  wrestle 
successfully  with  an  egg  famine,  I  next 
proceeded  to  the  more  complex  and  at 
the  same  time  more  interesting  prob- 
lems of  hatching  and  raising  young  chickens.  After 
our  appetite  for  eggs  had  been  appeased,  it  seemed 
high  time  that  some  of  those  hens  should  be  getting 
down  to  business  in  another  fashion.  It  was  late  in 
the  season ;  the  early  spring  flowers  had  bloomed  and 
faded ;  orchard  trees  were  blossoming,  birds  singing 
and  nest-building ;  and  here  were  our  feathered  folk, 
wandering  over  hill  and  dale,  chasing  yellow  butter- 
flies and  young  grasshoppers,  scratching  up  earth- 
worms and  garden  seeds  with  cheerful  zeal,  talking 
and  gossiping  among  themselves,  evidently  so  in  love 
with  sunshine  and  freedom,  that  not  one  of  them  had 
the  slightest  notion  of  going  into  solitary  confine- 


JFrom  an  HDregott 

ment  for  three  long,  stupid  weeks.  It  seemed  just 
possible  that  they  belonged  to  some  biddies'  club, 
were  "new-era"  dames,  and  had  permanently  re- 
tired from  the  hatching  business ;  perhaps  they  were 
saying  to  each  other,  "If  these  carnivorous  people 
want  spring  chickens,  let  them  buy  an  incubator  and 
hatch  them.  Let  none  look  to  us  for  early  broilers 
—  we  are  emancipated  females." 

One  day  I  was  out  raking  the  yard  when  Tom, 
coming  up  the  walk,  said :  "  Brace  yourself  for 
painful  news.  This  very  day  two  hens  belonging 
to  those  shameless  Stanhopes  were  set  —  or  sat  — 
which  would  you  say  ?  " 

Two  fowls,  dusting  themselves  under  a  rose  bush 
near  us,  apparently  overheard  this  talk ;  one  of  them 
sprang  up  and  really  did  seem  to  say,  quite  sharply, 
"What's  that?" 

"  I  said,  madam,"  answered  Tom,  "  that  the  Stan- 
hopes have  two  hens  set ;  and  I  ask,  '  Why  stand  ye 
here  all  the  day  idle  ?  '  You  are  a  Plymouth  dame, 
and  should  have  the  Plymouth  conscience." 

This  speech  aroused  the  ire  of  the  recumbent 
Susan  Nipper,  who  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  began 
a  furious  scratching,  indignantly  hurling  dead  leaves 
and  gravel  toward  the  speaker,  who  said  in  retalia- 
tion, "As  for  you,  Mistress  Nipper,  the  guillotine 
will  get  you  if  you  don't  watch  out ! " 

Whether  or  not  our  hens  were  influenced  by  this 
talk  will  probably  never  be  definitely  known,  but  a 

[106] 


Jftom  3n  2Dre0on 

couple  of  weeks  later  the  setting  craze  broke  out 
among  them,  raging  as  fiercely  as  the  Egyptian 
plague.  Clucking  hens  were  everywhere,  some  set- 
ting in  the  most  ludicrous  places,  others  in  their 
proper  boxes,  often  two  and  sometimes  even  three 
on  the  same  nest.  The  non-setters  persisted  in  de- 
positing their  eggs  with  the  setters,  which  resulted 
in  noisy  vituperations,  with  scratchings  from  sharp 
claws  and  jabbings  from  vicious  beaks.  At  this  the 
chanticleers,  under  pretense  of  stilling  the  tempest, 
but  secretly  glad  of  the  racket  and  of  the  chance  to 
show  off  their  oratorical  gifts,  would  begin  a  terrific 
harangue,  which  often  terminated  in  a  combat  be- 
tween themselves.  The  tumult  and  confusion  were 
like  a  madhouse. 

Meanwhile  the  demand  for  eggs  grew  strenuous. 
We  could  not  get  half  enough  to  supply  the  emer- 
gency call.  Everywhere  were  hens  setting  on  noth- 
ing. One  in  the  woodhouse,  with  imbecile  credulity, 
was  placidly  brooding  a  broken  doorknob.  I  have 
often  heard  the  remark,  "  No  more  sense  than  a  set- 
ting hen;"  now  I  see  the  force  of  it.  Out  of  pity 
for  their  needs,  I  urged  Tom  to  "  take  to  the  hills  " 
for  supplies.  Busy  with  other  work,  he  was  not 
eager  for  such  an  outing. 

"  But,  Tom,"  I  insisted,  "  my  prophetic  soul  warns 
me  that  this  is  the  tide  in  our  affairs,  which  taken  at 
the  flood  will  lead  on  to  fortune." 

"  And  my  prophetic  soul  warns  me  that  you  are  a 


Jfrom  an  SDregott 

false  Cassandra  and  a  persistent  one;  but  if  you  will 
bring  me  that  detestable  basket,  I'll  go  and  see  what 
I  can  do." 

Soon  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  jog 
away  on  his  quiet  old  Rosinante,  in  quest  of  the 
golden  nest  eggs  of  our  future  fortune.  Returning 
about  dark  with  a  full  basket,  obtained  with  diffi- 
culty from  various  sources,  he  hastened  to  visit  the 
home  of  each  feathered  recluse  and  furnish  it  with 
supplies;  after  which  this  good  Samaritan  sank  in 
exhaustion  upon  a  convenient  log,  and,  fanning  him- 
self with  his  hat,  declared  that  he  could  have  passed 
through  the  horrors  of  the  French  Revolution  with 
less  physical  and  mental  wear  and  tear  than  he  had 
suffered  with  this  siege  of  "  settin'  hens." 

I  sometimes  think  Thomas  is  given  to  exaggera- 
tion, especially  when  fatigued. 

This  was  only  the  beginning  of  trouble.  Two 
obstinate  hens  were  holding  the  fort  in  one  barrel; 
neither  would  give  up.  With  great  sagacity,  as  I 
thought,  I  advised  putting  another  barrel  there  with 
a  nest  in  it,  and  the  removal  of  Miss  Flite  thereto. 
"  You  know,  her  brain  is  a  little  muddled,"  I  added, 
"  and  she  won't  know  one  barrel  from  the  other." 

"Don't  fool  yourself!"  was  the  ominous  reply, 
as  my  plans  we're  being  executed. 

The  next  morning  he  came  in,  saying,  "  Just  as  I 
expected!  Both  those  hens  are  again  on  the  same 
nest." 

[108] 


jFtom  an  SDtegon 

After  due  deliberation,  the  oracle  thought  it  quite 
probable  that  Miss  Flite  was  the  original  owner  of 
the  nest,  and  was  holding  it  by  right  of  discovery. 
"Why  not  try  Mrs.  Pardiggle  on  the  other?" 
"  It's  no  use,  she  won't  stay ;  but  I'll  chuck  her  in." 
And  he  was  right ;  she  would  have  none  of  it,  but 
flounced  out  in  high  dudgeon  as  often  as  put  in. 
Tom  then  fell  back  on  "common  sense"  and  his 
mythical  experience  at  "  Uncle  Jim's,"  placing  a  par- 
tition in  the  barrel  with  a  nest  on  each  side  of  it  — 
an  arrangement  which  seemed  satisfactory  to  both 
parties.  All  went  well  for  about  a  week,  when  it 
was  found  that  the  straw  had  sunk  below  the  parti- 
tion, and,  the  avoirdupois  of  Mrs.  Pardiggle  being 
the  greater,  the  eggs  had  all  rolled  into  her  nest.  She 
was  sitting  on  twenty-six,  while  poor  Miss  Flite  had 
none;  but  as  the  latter  seemed  blissfully  unconscious 
of  any  deficit,  while  the  former,  owing  to  her 
voluminous  foliage,  could  easily  cover  all  the  eggs, 
we  thought  it  best  to  leave  their  tranquillity  undis- 
turbed. 

Thirteen  chickens  were  the  result  of  this  co-opera- 
tive incubation.  Tom  happened  to  be  at  the  barn 
when  the  triumphant  Pardiggle,  with  loud  maternal 
duckings,  sailed  out  of  it  with  the  entire  brood  of 
fledglings  at  her  heels.  It  seemed  to  him  that  a  light 
suddenly  shone  in  upon  the  befogged  intellect  of 
Miss  Flite;  for,  screaming  maniacally,  she  dashed 
from  her  compartment  and  flew  into  the  midst  of 

[109] 


JFtom  an  flDtegon 

the  brood,  making  frantic  efforts  to  secure  a  fair 
division  of  the  spoils. 

"I  hope  you  gave  her  some  of  them,"  I  said  to 
Tom  when  he  had  finished  his  narration. 

"Yes,  six;  though  feeling  that  I  was  foolishly 
sentimental  in  doing  it." 

"No,  Tom,  it  was  right  and  just  —  a  merited  re- 
ward for  twenty-one  days  of  inefficient  faithfulness." 

I  am  grieved  to  relate  that  Mrs.  P.,  with  unscru- 
pulous pertinacity,  through  bribes  and  blandish- 
ments, lured  all  those  chickens  back  except  two, 
which  Miss  Flite  continued  "to  have  and  to  hold" 
until  they  grew  into  a  beautiful  and  independent 
young  pullethood. 

If  it  surprises  you  that  our  mania  for  names  is 
carried  into  poultrydom,  just  observe  fowls  closely 
for  a  time,  and  you  will  discover  that  not  only  are 
they  possessed  of  marked  individuality,  but  also  of 
many  of  the  characteristics  of  people  you  have 
known.  For  instance,  a  dapper  glossy  black  hen 
had  a  topknot  like  a  high  silk  hat,  and  grotesquely 
long  wing  feathers  resembling  a  frock  coat,  which 
gave  her  such  a  look  of  masquerading  in  male  attire 
that  "  Dr.  Mary  Walker "  seemed  the  only  possible 
name  for  her.  "The  Doctor"  is  an  impulsive,  self- 
willed  creature.  Observing  her  friends  going,  one 
by  one,  "into  the  silence,"  she  apparently  reasoned 
that  the  social  whirl  was  over,  that  it  would  proba- 
bly be  dull  in  the  yard  for  a  time,  and  so  concluded 

[no] 


4From  an  SDregon 

to  go  into  the  setting  business  herself.  Looking  the 
quarters  over,  she  found  a  desirable  flat ;  and  though 
the  rooms  were  all  taken,  she  arrogantly  ousted  a 
timid,  dark-complexioned  tenant  of  Spanish  descent, 
taking  immediate  possession  of  her  home,  her  goods 
and  chattels.  The  evicted  one  hung  about  her  old 
home,  lamenting  bitterly;  and  though  frequent 
efforts  were  made  to  reinstate  her,  all  were  futile. 
No  matter  how  often  or  how  violent  "The  Doc- 
tor's "  removal,  an  hour  later  she  would  be  found 
back  in  the  same  place.  Losing  patience  at  last,  Tom 
said  in  disgust:  "Well,  stay  there,  then,  you 
confounded  old  trespasser!  You  look  ridiculous 
enough,  perched  up  there,  with  your  hat  on  and  your 
coat-tails  hanging  over  that  box.  You  have  just 
taken  this  up  as  a  fad,  and  you'll  mighty  soon  be 
sick  of  it." 

If  "The  Doctor"  heard,  she  made  no  sign,  but 
continued  to  gaze  steadfastly  toward  the  Pacific 
Ocean,  and  never  turned  a  feather.  Having  won 
the  battle,  she  settled  down  to  business  in  a  resolute 
way;  and  we  thought  that  perhaps,  after  all,  she 
wasn't  so  flighty  as  she  looked. 

A  week  later  Tom  said,  "  You  can't  guess  whom 
I  saw  in  the  woods  today." 

"Robin  Hood?" 

"No." 

"Friar  Tuck?" 

"  No ;  one  more  guess  and  you're  out." 


JFrom  an  SDregon 

After  deep  thought  I  hazarded,  "Countess  Irma 
and  her  little  wood-carver." 

"Oh,  you're  away  off!  It  was  Dr.  Mary 
Walker." 

"  Good  gracious !  What  was  she  doing  away  up 
there?" 

"  Sauntering  along  the  brook,  with  a  gay  bevy  of 
friends,  picking  up  pebbles  and  grasses,  seemingly 
quite  care-free  and  joyous." 

After  this  she  was  seen  every  day  stalking  over 
the  fields.  Great  was  our  surprise  when  we  found 
she  really  had  hatched  seven  chickens.  But  having 
hatched  them,  she  apparently  didn't  want  them,  or 
know  what  to  do  with  them.  She  just  stood  in  a 
far  corner  of  the  coop  and  eyed  them  gloomily,  mak- 
ing no  effort  to  feed,  amuse,  or  instruct  them.  She 
evidently  never  told  them  a  word  about  hawks,  and 
the  very  first  day  they  were  allowed  to  go  out  for 
exercise  two  were  carried  off,  and  the  next  day  an- 
other; the  following  morning  she  came  straight  to 
the  house  with  the  remaining  four,  threw  them  on 
my  hands,  walked  off  among  the  tall  ferns,  and 
never  came  back  to  them.  The  little  dew-bedrag- 
gled things  stood  in  a  shivering  huddle,  peeping  for 
their  mother,  until  my  nerves  could  no  longer  endure 
it.  I  brought  them  in,  fed,  and  wrapped  them  up 
warmly;  but  still  came  those  anxious  cries,  shrill 
and  incessant.  Then  I  remembered  that  Thoreau 
says,  "  Little  chickens  taken  from  the  hen  and  put  in 

[112] 


JFtom  3n  Dregon 

a  basket  of  cotton  will  often  peep  till  they  die ;  but  if 
you  will  put  in  a  book,  or  anything  heavy,  which 
will  press  down  the  cotton  and  feel  like  the  hen,  they 
will  go  to  sleep  directly."  Looking  around  for  a 
weight  that  would  "  feel  like  the  hen,"  an  inspiration 
seized  me.  I  took  the  fluffy  feather  duster,  warmed 
it  slightly,  and  placed  it  over  them,  and  was  instantly 
rewarded  by  hearing  a  soft,  gentle  twittering  —  "  the 
low  beginnings  of  content,"  which  soon  ended  in 
perfect  quiet.  In  the  hush  that  followed,  I  blessed 
the  "  Recluse  of  Walden  "  for  the  happy  hint  which 
had  floated  to  me  across  the  years. 

After  that,  whenever  an  ailing  chicken  was 
brought  to  me  for  treatment,  I  usually  clapped  the 
duster  over  it  and  let  nature  take  its  course.  Some- 
times, it  is  true,  when  I  lifted  the  duster  to  take  a 
look  at  the  patient,  the  patient  was  dead ;  but  then  it 
was  quiet,  and  that's  something.  I  feel  a  great  pride 
in  being  the  discoverer  of  the  feather-duster  mother, 
and  am  quite  sure  that  no  other  poultry  preserve  in 
the  United  States  has  as  yet  realized  its  possibilities. 

That  evening  I  advised  Tom  to  look  around  for 
"  Dr.  Mary  Walker,"  as  I  feared  she  had  met  with 
some  mishap.  Returning  later,  he  said:  "Your 
fears  were  groundless.  When  I  closed  the  door  of 
the  chicken  house,  I  glanced  over  the  inmates,  and, 
lo  and  behold,  in  the  front  row  of  the  dress  circle 
sat  her  Majesty  'wrapped  in  the  solitude  of  her  own 
originality/  She  seemed  quite  at  peace  with  herself 


4From  an  Oregon  Katuft 

and  the  world.    If  she  had  been  on  the  ground  floor, 
I  believe  I  would  have  slapped  her." 

It  proved  to  be  a  clear  case  of  desertion;  finding 
the  duties  of  motherhood  irksome,  she  had  shaken 
them  off,  leaving  her  children  to  me  to  bring  up,  as 
Mrs.  Joe  Gargery  brought  up  Pip,  "by  hand." 


BOUT  the  time  our  poultry  colony  was 
fairly  established  in  the  "  settin' "  busi- 
ness, a  smiling  little  sheep  herder  of  the 
hills  handed  me  a  note  from  Mary.  It 
was  certainly  unique — a  sheet  of  pale 
gray  notepaper  daintily  folded,  and  pinned  to- 
gether by  a  white  feather  crossing  it  diagonally. 
Fastened  near  the  top  of  the  inside  page  was  a 
picture  of  a  row  of  cunning  little  chickens  just 
merging  from  the  shell,  cut  perhaps  from  some  ad- 
vertisement; and  just  beneath  the  following  poetic 
outburst : 

"  To  the  Hermitage  hasten  to  tea, 

And  delay  not  to  fix, 
You're  wanted  just  for  to  see 
Our  brand-new  chicks." 

"How  humiliating,  with  ours  still  in  the  shell!" 
said  Tom.    "  We  started  neck  and  neck  in  this  race, 


Jfrom  an  Oregon 

and  they  beat  us  with  eggs,  and  now  come  under  the 
wire  two  weeks  ahead  with  young  chickens.  No 
wonder  they  have  'dropped  into  poetry'  —  though 
that  second  line  does  seem  a  bit  superfluous,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Yes;  they  must  have  needed  a  rhyme  for 
'chicks/  as  they  well  know  that  to  'fix*  is  with  us  a 
lost  art." 

"Thank  heaven  it  is!"  fervently  responded  the 
gentleman,  turning  down  the  hem  of  his  overalls  as 
a  slight  concession  to  the  usages  of  polite  society. 
The  housekeeper,  noting  the  half -pint  of  oats  which 
rolled  out  on  the  floor,  was  calmly  ignored,  as  in  his 
best  circus  tones  he  announced  himself  ready  "  for 
the  great,  free,  moral,  and  spectacular  exhibition 
of  the  recently  incubated."  A  half-hour  later,  in 
comfortable  negligee,  we  were  seated  at  the  social 
board  of  our  successful  competitors  in  the  poultry 
art. 

What  topics,  think  you,  are  discussed  "  over  the 
tea  cups"  in  the  hills?  Dinner  parties,  luncheons, 
receptions,  last  night's  drama  ?  Not  at  all ;  nothing 
so  giddy  as  that.  Nor  do  we  discourse  of  art,  music, 
literature,  and  such  hackneyed  themes.  No;  the 
agricultural  mind  soars  not  so  far  above  the  soil. 
The  flow  of  soul  usually  begins  with  chickens  and 
eggs ;  the  subject  of  butter  is  then  tactfully  brought 
forward,  which  naturally  suggests  cows;  cows  sug- 
gesting pasture,  it  is  then  but  a  step  to  crops  in  gen- 

[116] 


Jfrorn  an  2Dre0on  iRatufi 

eral  and  "vetch"  in  particular.  Lives  there  a  man 
with  soul  so  dead  that  he  does  not  expatiate  upon  the 
wonderful  properties  of  "vetch"  ?  If  such  there 
be,  he  is  not  a  resident  of  the  hill  country.  Until  we 
came  here,  I  had  never  heard  the  word  spoken ;  and 
now  these  new  landed  proprietors  talk  of  it  from 
the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

On  the  evening  of  which  I  write,  the  talk  began, 
as  usual,  with  fowls,  dwelling  chiefly  upon  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  the  setting  hen.  We  spoke  of  her 
illogical  persistence  and  her  general  absurdities. 
Especially  did  we  deplore  her  combativeness,  Bert 
holding  up  a  pair  of  battle-scarred  hands  as  proof 
that  his  recent  triumphs  had  not  been  wholly  free 
from  sanguinary  features.  Presently  he  went  out 
and  gathered  a  hatful  of  his  "brand-new  chicks"  — 
fluffy,  velvety  little  balls  of  yellow  and  black,  soft 
grays,  and  creamy  browns.  The  exhibitor  remarked 
boastfully,  "This  is  only  a  small  line  of  samples. 
I  have  in  stock  twenty-five  of  these  valuable  birds." 

"  And  they  are  all  right  for  a  starter,"  said  Tom, 
patronizingly,  "  but  if  you  will  drop  in  at  the  Pointed 
Fir  Hatchery  in  a  couple  of  weeks,  we  will  show 
you  about  twenty-five  hundred  of  them." 

I  grieve  to  note  the  habit  of  exaggeration  grow- 
ing upon  Thomas.  Possibly  two  hundred  were 
hatched,  but  to  raise  them  after  hatching — ay, 
there's  the  rub.  Watchful  sparrow  hawks  swooped 
down  upon  them  by  day;  at  night  bloodthirsty 


4From  3n  2Dregon  Kancft 

prowlers  of  the  forest  crept  stealthily  forth  to  claim 
their  share;  of  the  survivors,  many  suffered  from 
disease,  not  only  the  newly  fledged,  but  quite  a 
number  of  the  older  ones,  which  were  what  Tom 
called  a  lot  of  "  scrubs."  These  were  bought,  dur- 
ing the  rainy  season,  of  accessible  and  accommodat- 
ing ranchmen,  who  naturally  did  not  part  with  their 
best. 

Finding  Tom  one  day  gravely  stirring  some  sort 
of  mixture  on  the  stove,  I  asked,  "What  in  the 
world  is  that?" 

"This,  madam,  is  lard  and  cayenne  pepper  —  a 
dose  designed  for  a  sick  hen." 

"  How  do  you  know  she  is  sick  ?  " 

"If  you  saw  a  hen  moping  around,  humped  up 
like  this,  and  catching  her  breath  so  "  —  graphically 
illustrating  —  "you  would  conclude  that  she  wasn't 
enjoying  the  best  of  health,  wouldn't  you?" 

"  I'd  think  she  had  the  blues,  at  least.  What  does 
ail  her?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  you." 

"  Who  suggested  that  mixture  ?  " 

"  This  mixture  was  used  with  unparalleled  success 
at  my  Uncle  Jim's." 

"  Oh !    As  a  remedy  for  what  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  so  many  questions.  I  don't  know 
what  it  was  given  for,  and  I  don't  care ;  it's  the  only 
chicken  remedy  I  wot  of,  and  when  one  of  ours 
seems  indisposed  she's  going  to  get  a  dose  of  it." 

[118] 


jFrom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

With  this  defiant  declaration  the  gentleman  went 
out  to  visit  his  patient,  while  I  looked  up  a  bulletin 
on  poultry  from  our  agricultural  college.  I  was 
appalled  to  learn  of  the  diseases  chicken  flesh  is  heir 
to.  It  seemed  that  if  we  succeeded  in  saving  even 
one,  it  would  be  as  a  brand  snatched  from  the  burn- 
ing. In  my  pursuit  of  information  I  had  just 
stumbled  upon  a  poser  as  the  doctor  returned. 

"Tom,  has  a  hen  a  nose?" 

"  Heavens,  Katharine !  how  should  I  know  ?  Not 
a  noticeable  one,  I  guess ;  at  least,  not  one  that  she 
can  turn  up.  Why?" 

"Because  this  book  speaks  of  a  hen's  nostrils, 
which  implies  a  nose,  don't  you  think?  It  says 
sometimes  a  slight  incrustation  forms  over  them, 
which  should  be  gently  removed  by  their  caretaker." 

"  Yes  —  well,  I  can  tell  you  right  now  that  it  will 
be  an  exceedingly  frigid  day  when  this  caretaker 
gently  removes  it." 

Oh,  it  is  so  wearing,  this  trying  to  instil  scientific 
knowledge  into  the  mind  of  one  who  absorbs  so 
little !  Sustained,  however,  by  an  earnest  desire  for 
his  enlightenment,  I  began  again  timidly  — 

"  If  this  patient  of  yours  should  happen  to  be  suf- 
fering from  lung  trouble,  you  should  give  her  a 
soothing  drink." 

"  Soothing  fiddlesticks !  " 

"  I  thought  you  approved  of  the  teachings  of  the 
agricultural  college  ?  " 

[119] 


Jftom  an  flDregon 

"  Well,  isn't  warm  melted  lard  a  soothing  drink?  " 

"I  have  never  tried  it  as  a  beverage,  but  with 
cayenne  pepper  added,  it  might,  I  should  think,  ex- 
coriate even  the  well-seasoned  throat  of  the  terrible 
Mrs.  Quilp.  Didn't  it  strangle  her  ?  " 

"  It  did,  Katharine ;  but  it  also  aroused  her  from 
her  apathy  —  and  that  is  a  point  gained." 

To  my  surprise,  after  taking  a  few  doses  that  fowl 
really  did  regain  her  health  and  spirits.  During  the 
summer  the  invigorating  cordial  was  frequently  ad- 
ministered, with  varying  results.  Patients  with 
strong  constitutions  survived  it,  others  died ;  but  the 
doctor's  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  the  remedy  remained 
unshaken. 

He  had  several  baffling  cases;  for  instance,  there 
was  a  hen  that  looked  perfectly  well  and  ate  raven- 
ously. When  wheat  was  thrown  out,  she  would 
start  for  it  on  the  run,  but  would  soon  begin  to 
wobble  like  an  exhausted  top,  and  would  fall  over, 
perhaps  several  times,  before  reaching  the  goal, 
often  landing  there  on  her  back,  when  she  would 
turn  on  her  side  and  gobble  wheat  as  deftly  as  the 
well  ones.  She  was  soon  placed  in  a  private  sani- 
tarium, and  her  meals  were  carried  to  her  until 
death  came  to  her  relief.  I  pronounced  this  case 
epilepsy;  though  Tom  said  it  was  a  clear  case  of 
locomotor  ataxia,  and  that  not  even  the  wise  ones  of 
the  agricultural  college  could  have  saved  her. 

We  had  one  frightfully  small  chicken  with  an  ab- 

[120] 


jfrom  an  SDregon  Kancf) 

normally  large  head ;  it  could  walk  a  very  little  in  a 
stiff  and  awful  way,  but  couldn't  stand  at  all  and 
maintain  its  equilibrium,  except  with  its  feet  very 
wide  apart  and  its  bill  poked  in  the  ground  as  an 
extra  brace.  In  this  case  the  physician's  diagnosis 
was  "dropsy  of  the  brain."  It  did  look  like  it.  As 
the  bantling  couldn't  keep  within  even  hailing  dis- 
tance of  its  mother,  it  was  brought  to  the  house  for 
the  rest  cure.  Here  it  was  never  at  ease  unless  it 
could  find  a  crevice  of  the  kitchen  floor  and  insert  its 
bill  in  it;  then  with  closed  eyes  it  would  stand  very 
still  for  many  minutes,  a  painful  and  gruesome  look- 
ing object.  Very  often  the  professional  gaze  turned 
thoughtfully  toward  it,  and  I  well  knew  the  gentle- 
man was  wondering  whether  or  not  the  malady 
could  be  reached  by  lard  and  pepper.  I  was  glad 
when  kindly  death  interposed  and  saved  the  poor 
little  sufferer  from  Graham's  Great  Elixir. 

During  the  summer  Tom,  not  being  quite  satisfied 
with  "  scrubs,"  bought  some  better  chickens.  Among 
them  was  one  which  caused  him  great  trouble  for  a 
time.  It  was  a  fine  thoroughbred  Plymouth  Rock, 
called  by  his  former  owner  "  Captain  Jack."  The 
Captain,  for  some  reason  known  only  to  himself, 
objected  to  the  early  hours  kept  by  our  mountain 
flock,  and  firmly  refused  to  enter  the  dormitory  with 
them  at  sunset.  It  may  have  been  that  he  had  an 
affair  of  honor  arranged  with  some  hostile  member 
of  an  outlying  camp;  or,  being  town  bred,  he  may 

[121] 


JFtom  an  SDregon 

have  been  waiting  for  curfew  to  ring.  Of  course 
we  could  only  guess  at  the  motives  which  prompted 
his  erratic  conduct.  But  we  did  know  that  if  he 
were  left  at  large  he  would  surely  fall  a  victim  to 
some  lynx-eyed  assassin  of  the  hills;  consequently 
Tom  had  to  stay  with  him  until  he  voluntarily 
walked  into  the  chicken  house. 

"Let  him  go  in  when  he  gets  ready,"  I  sug- 
gested, "and  close  the  door  later." 

"  He  would  never  get  ready,  Katharine ;  he  would 
hide  away  in  some  tree,  and  that  would  be  the  end 
of  his  earthly  career.  You  must  not  forget  that  he 
cost  me  three  big  silver  dollars." 

It  was  a  solemn  and  impressive  spectacle  as  seen 
in  the  gloaming — those  two  weird  shadowy  figures 
moving  slowly  and  silently  through  the  tall  weeds 
and  dog's  fennel,  the  Captain  a  few  paces  in  ad- 
vance, showing  no  perturbation,  though  well  he 
knew  "  a  frightful  fiend  did  close  behind  him  tread." 
Occasionally  he  would  pause  to  snatch  a  belated  bug 
or  an  unwary  grasshopper,  or  with  assumed  non- 
chalance stop  before  some  little  bush,  scratch  about 
its  roots,  then  stand  on  tiptoe,  and  examine  each 
leaf  as  carefully  as  if  he  were  engaged  in  the  study 
of  botany.  All  this  time  Tom,  with  the  same 
affected  carelessness,  would  be  sauntering  near, 
pausing  as  the  Captain  paused,  just  as  if  he  were 
taking  an  evening  stroll  and  had  by  the  merest  acci- 
dent fallen  in  with  the  military  gentleman,  but 

[122] 


Jfrom  an  S)te0on  Kancfe 

always  keeping  on  the  off-side  and  unobtrusively 
guiding  the  wanderer's  steps  bedward.  When  at 
last  the  wayward  one  entered  the  building,  the  door 
would  bang  behind  him  with  such  force  as  to  shake 
the  whole  crazy  structure.  These  evening  rambles 
were  continued  for  a  couple  of  weeks,  when  sud- 
denly it  seemed  to  dawn  upon  the  Captain  that  sun- 
set was  practically  the  sounding  of  "taps,"  in  the 
hills,  whereupon  he  turned  in  with  the  others,  and 
gave  his  guardian  no  further  trouble. 


XIV 

"VHIS,  Nell,  is  the  loveliest  of  May  morn- 
ings, the  sky  as  blue  as  a  robin's  egg. 

"  There's  a  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  tall 

forest  trees, 
And  the  brook  sings  a  lullaby  sweet." 

For  two  hours  I  have  been  at  work  in  the  garden, 
weeding  onion,  radish,  and  lettuce  beds.  Though 
this  sounds  prosaic,  it  was  really  idyllic.  I  had 
started  upon  my  errand  with  but  little  enthusiasm, 
being  tired  from  churning — eighty  revolutions  per 
minute  —  but  after  my  first  glimpse  of  the  glory  of 
the  orchard  I  couldn't  hurry  fast  enough  to  that 
bower  of  pink-and-white  beauty  lying  on  the  sunlit 
hillside  in  all  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  early  morn- 
ing. As  I  reached  it,  it  seemed  to  me  nothing  in  the 
wide  world  could  be  sweeter.  The  air,  so  soft  and 
pure,  was  filled  with  the  delicate  perfume  of  pear, 


Jftom  3n  JDregott 

plum,  and  apple  blossoms ;  shadow  and  shine  rippled 
through  the  tall  grass;  swaying  upon  and  flashing 
through  the  flowery  branches  were  plump  robins  with 
satiny  vests  of  orange,  the  bluest  of  bluejays  with 
drum-major  topknots,  and  a  shining  host  of  wild 
canaries.  A  big  pear  tree  seemed  alive  and  fluttering 
with  these  canaries1 — little  shimmering  knots  of  gold 
among  the  white  blossoms.  They  came  here  in 
swarms  last  spring,  though  earlier,  when  the  peach 
trees  were  blooming.  I  remember  that  Tom  called 
me  to  come  out  and  see  a  "  yellow  peach  tree."  He 
thought  there  were  a  hundred  or  more  birds  on  one 
tree. 

Such  a  flurry,  flutter,  and  twitter  as  there  was  up 
among  those  pink  blossoms!  Such  a  multitude  of 
little  yellow  birds  we  had  never  before  seen.  We 
were  as  excited  as  two  children.  They  stayed  but  a 
day  or  two  in  such  numbers,  though  many  remained 
throughout  the  summer. 

I  suppose  this  is  another  party  of  tourists  stopping 
over  with  us  today,  thinking  they  have  reached  Para- 
dise ;  and  it  is  little  wonder,  for  it  is  like  it. 

I  too  longed  to  stay  there  "  and  just  be  glad,"  but 
the  vegetables  were  calling  me  from  below  to  hurry 
along  and  deliver  them  from  the  deadly  snares  of 
their  enemies  —  the  coiling  snake  grass,  wire  grass, 
smartweed,  dog's  fennel,  and  all  their  myriad  foes. 
Reluctantly  leaving  the  flowery  kingdom,  with  glit- 
tering blade  of  steel  I  walked  down  into  the  valley 


JFtom  an  Oregon 

of  distress  and  began  dealing  death  and  destruction 
right  and  left.  Yet  even  as  I  did  it  I  felt  a  kind  of 
pity  for  the  innocent  little  trespassers. 

I  wish  you  could  see  this  dear  old  ranch  garden  — 
so  quiet  and  secluded,  hedged  about  by  green  grow- 
ing wild  things,  like  a  lonely  little  island.  Across 
one  side  is  an  old  paling  fence,  at  least  so  tradition 
tells  us,  for  if  it  still  is  there  it  is  lost  to  sight  and 
serves  only  as  a  support  for  vines  and  brambles. 
There  the  blackberry  trails  its  flowery  sprays,  and 
the  wild  gourd  runs  like  a  creature  alive,  holding  up 
its  slender  stems  of  green,  tipped  with  fragrant 
starry  white  blossoms,  such  as  we  never  saw  until 
we  came  to  Oregon.  The  farmers  call  it  a  pest ;  if 
so,  it  is  a  most  bewitching  one.  Here  too  are  hazel 
bushes  —  not  like  ours,  but  small  trees ;  and  wild  rose 
and  salmon  bushes.  The  latter  I  am  quite  sure  you 
have  never  seen.  Their  blossoms  are  beautiful,  like 
pink  hollyhocks  in  miniature.  The  humming  birds 
love  them;  two  burnished  beauties  were  hovering 
above  them  when  I  entered  the  garden  —  different 
from  any  we  have  before  seen,  making  the  queerest 
roaring  sounds,  not  unlike  those  of  a  wild  animal. 
You  won't  believe  this,  nor  did  I  until  I  had  traced 
the  incongruous  sounds  to  them.  It  seemed  prepos- 
terous to  suppose  that  such  dainty  bits  of  iridescence 
would  roar  like  that ;  but  they  did,  for  I  caught  them 
in  the  very  act. 

Alders  and  willows  grow  about  my  Eden,  and  wild 


JFrom  3n  Oregon 

plum  and  crab  apple  trees  are  snowy  with  bloom  and 
faintly  sweet;  underneath  these  is  a  tangle  of  low 
bushes,  wild  flowers,  tall  weeds,  and  vines.  Through 
this  wall  of  green  came  a  pleasant  sound  of  bubbling 
waters,  gushing  from  the  roots  of  a  group  of  alders 
just  above  me,  a  pure  little  rill  of  it  sliding  down  the 
hillside,  under  bending  briers,  tall  grasses,  and  nod- 
ding rushes. 

Who  wouldn't  enjoy  weeding  in  such  a  glorified 
nook,  hearing  the  music  of  rustling  leaves,  falling 
waters,  and  a  chorus  of  bird  voices,  a  "  choir  invis- 
ible "  hidden  away  in  those  green  temples ! 

In  the  early  morning  the  birds  seem  almost  deliri- 
ously happy,  singing  with  a  "fine,  careless  rapture," 
as  if  from  mere  joy  of  living.  In  the  evening  their 
notes,  though  very  sweet,  are  more  subdued  and 
plaintive,  just  hinting  of  unrest.  Is  it  from  weari- 
ness or  is  it  anxiety  ?  Whatever  the  cause,  it  is  too 
elusive  to  be  interpreted  by  my  dull  senses. 

I  am  ashamed  that  I  know  so  little  about  birds,  not 
even  the  names  of  half  that  we  see  here;  and  yet  I 
love  them  beyond  rubies  and  pearls. 

As  I  crouched  there,  working,  and  thinking  of 
these  things,  I  suddenly  heard  a  familiar  bird  voice, 
and  looking  up  I  saw  perched  upon  a  curving  willow 
wand  a  little  wood  wren  that  comes  many  times  each 
day  to  the  porch  for  crumbs.  If  I  am  not  in  sight,  he 
lights  on  the  railing  and  calls  persistently  until  I  ap- 
pear. He  has  become  quite  fearless,  hopping  so  near 


JFrom  3n  2Dre0on  Batufr 

that  I  could  reach  him  with  my  hand.  A  most  lov- 
able bird  is  little  "  Hop  o'  My  Thumb,"  as  Tom  calls 
him.  He  introduced  himself  to  us  early  last  winter, 
and  now  we  are  intimate  friends. 

After  a  time  I  found  the  sun  was  shining  down 
hot,  and  I  was  glad  when  the  last  of  the  onions  were 
freed  from  their  tormentors.  They  stood  in  long 
straight  ranks,  like  little  soldiers,  and  I  think  they 
saluted  me  as  a  conquering  hero.  I  glanced  at  the 
parsley  bed,  and  could  see  the  little  crinkly  newcom- 
ers looking  up  through  dog's  fennel,  gasping  for 
breath ;  but  so  was  I,  and  hence  had  to  ignore  their 
mute  appeal.  While  I  know  of  no  more  fascinating 
work  than  weeding  a  garden,  the  stooping  position 
makes  it  hard.  If  the  beds  were  only  placed  up  high, 
like  counters,  with  light  rattan  seats  running  round 
them,  the  work  would  be  ideal.  I'll  have  that  kind 
some  day,  when  my  long-overdue  ship  sails  into  the 
harbor.  To  rest  and  escape  the  heat,  I  recrossed  the 
raging  Tiber,  went  again  up  in  the  orchard,  sat  down 
under  an  apple  tree,  threw  off  my  sunbonnet  and 
with  it  "the  cares  that  infest  the  day,"  and  gave 
myself  up  to  the  spell  of  that  world  of  bloom  and 
beauty. 

"The  blossoms  drifted  at  my  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear ;  " 

and  softly  now,  in  the  later  morning,  their  notes 
blended  deliciously  with  the  low  murmur  of  leaves, 


jfrom  3n  SDregon 

rippling  waters,  and  the  faint  tinkling  of  sheep  bells 
down  the  leafy  lane.  The  grass  all  about  me  was 
thickly  studded  with  wild  flowers ;  everywhere  little 
tongues  of  flame  were  darting  up  through  the  green, 
from  some  queer  plant  new  to  me;  patches  of  tall 
buttercups  were  waving  in  the  sunshine  like  cloth  of 
gold;  white  honeysuckles  and  purple  and  lavender 
fleurs-de-lis  were  all  about  me.  Above  them  was  a 
canopy  of  pink  and  white;  around  were  the  mighty 
hills  spiked  with  the  eternal  green  of  the  jagged  fir 
trees,  and  over  all  was  the  arching  blue  of  heaven. 

Into  my  heart  stole  that  peace  which  passeth  un- 
derstanding, with  a  tide  of  thanksgiving  toward  the 
all-loving  Father,  who  gives  to  his  poor  tired  chil- 
dren such  glimpses  of  glory  and  beauty  as  they  travel 
the  long  briery  road  stretching  out  from  life's  dawn 
to  life's  dusk.  Then  I  pitied  all  the  denizens  of  great 
cities  imprisoned  in  brick  and  stone,  so  far  away 
from  these  blessed  hills  of  Oregon,  where  there's 
"room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe,  and  be  free." 
At  such  times  the  world  seems  remote  and  unreal. 
No  sound  from  it  pierces  our  leafy  barricade.  No 
clanging  bells,  no  whistles,  no  shrieking  engines,  no 
brass  bands  nor  throbbing  drums,  invade  this  sweet 
peacefulness. 

We  grow  almost  conceited,  living  in  this  vast  soli- 
tude, half  believing  that  we  are  the  only  inhabitants 
of  the  earth,  that  the  machinery  of  the  universe  is 
kept  oiled  and  running  just  for  us  —  until  the  mail 

[129] 


JFrom  an  2Dre0on 

arrives,  sometimes  once  a  week,  but  oftener  once  in 
two  weeks ;  then,  as  we  unfurl  the  manifold  pages  of 
the  metropolitan  papers,  we  learn  that  there  are 
others  —  that  the  classes  and  the  masses  are  still  go- 
ing up  and  down  the  world,  toiling  and  suffering  and 
dying.  I  suppose  that  when  we  received  a  daily  mail 
this  sort  of  thing  came  in  smaller  doses,  and  we  be- 
came hardened  to  it ;  but  coming  now  en  masse,  as  it 
does,  the  whole  flood  of  it  poured  upon  us  at  once,  it 
is  depressing  and  awful,  the  gruesome  stories  echoing 
sadly  through  our  hearts  even  in  this  far-off  lotus 
land  "  in  which  it  seems  always  afternoon." 


is  a  breathlessly  hot  day  in  early 
June,  and  I  am  all  alone  in  the  deep  fir 
forest,  the  others  having  gone  "  to 
town"  for  supplies  —  even  Mary,  who 
likes  to  take  an  occasional  peep  over  the 
rim  of  this  big  green  bowl  in  which  we  dwell,  to  see 
the  people  outside,  note  the  style  of  their  hats  and 
gowns,  watch  the  "cars  come  in,"  hear  the  engines 
whistle,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  She  begged  me 
to  go,  but  I,  thinking  of  the  long  dusty  road,  espe- 
cially that  portion  of  it  winding  above  those  dizzy 
and  dangerous  canyons,  felt  that  I  would  rather  stay 
in  my  little  old  box-house  under  the  cool  shadows 
of  the  pointed  firs.  Once  in  a  while  I  enjoy  being 
quite  alone  for  a  whole  day.  It  must  be  the  hermit 
strain  in  my  blood,  inherited  from  dead  and  gone 
ancestors,  who  probably  ate  roots  and  herbs,  dressed 
in  skins,  and  lived  in  caves. 


JFrom  3n  SDregon 

The  travelers  set  out  for  the  giddy  world  just  at 
sunrise,  and  as  I  stood  at  the  gate  to  see  them  off, 
Mary  looked  at  me  quite  sorrowfully,  and  Tom  said, 
r'  You  have  a  long  day  before  you,  Katharine ;  what 
will  you  do  when  we  are  gone  ?  " 

"  Do  ?  Nothing  at  all,  sir ;  I  shall  wander  about  at 
my  own  sweet  will  — 

'As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean/ 

This  promises  to  be  one  of  the  best  days  of  my  life." 

"  You'll  not  be  quite  so  gay,  my  lady,  when  night 
swoops  down  on  you  in  this  spook-haunted  wood- 
land." 

"Night  swoops  up,  not  down,  in  the  hills, 
Thomas,  and  there  are  no  spooks  in  this  enchanted 
wilderness." 

"Good-bye!"  Bert  called  out  as  they  started. 
"  Don't  get  desperate  and  hang  yourself  in  a  fir  tree 
while  we  are  away ! " 

I  watched  them  driving  down  the  leafy  lane  until 
a  bend  in  the  road  was  reached,  when  Mary  looked 
back ;  then  — 

"A  hand  like  a  whitewood  blossom 
She  lifted,  and  waved,  and  passed." 

I  can't  help  smiling  at  this  conceit,  for  Mary's  hands 
and  my  own,  after  a  year  and  more  of  ranch  life,  are 


in  texture  and  color  hardly  like  whitewood  blossoms, 
to  say  the  least. 

The  forsaken  house  looked  very  quiet  as  I  turned 
back  to  the  walk  leading  to  the  door.  That  walk, 
which  when  we  arrived  here  in  the  cold  drizzle  of  a 
winter  evening  seemed  only  a  narrow  muddy  gulch 
fringed  with  dead  bushes,  surprised  and  gladdened 
us,  when  spring  came,  by  the  wealth  of  bloom  which 
leaped  to  light  along  its  borders. 

This  is  quite  an  old  ranch,  one  that  has  had  many 
different  owners,  some  of  whom  must  have  been  real 
flower  lovers.  Wherever  they  are  today,  I  wish  this 
rose-scented  breeze  might  carry  to  them  our  grateful 
benedictions. 

Of  late  years  the  place  was  often  without  a  tenant. 
At  such  times,  we  are  told,  the  sheep  and  goats  of 
neighboring  ranches  roamed  over  it  at  will,  leaving 
destruction  in  their  wake;  that  any  plant  life  sur- 
vived their  ravages  seems  strange,  and  yet  we  were 
constantly  being  surprised  by  some  old-timer  strug- 
gling through  the  sod.  Bert  made  the  first  discov- 
ery, and  we  all  hurried  to  see  the  circle  of  little  sharp 
bayonets  piercing  the  earth,  which  a  few  weeks  later, 
by  their  green  ribbons  and  yellow  frowsy  heads,  pro- 
claimed themselves  daffodils.  These  gave  us  hope  of 
more  to  follow,  and  after  that  we  fairly  haunted  the 
margin  of  that  walk;  presently  our  vigilance  was 
rewarded  by  seeing  delicate  pink  fingers  pushing 
aside  the  matted  grass  and  clover,  in  an  effort  to  gain 

[133] 


Jftom  an  2Dregon  Kane!) 

the  sunlight  and  startle  newcomers  by  the  collossal 
size  and  beauty  of  the  Oregon  peony.  Soon  fol- 
lowed the  tall  queenly  iris,  gowned  in  white,  yellow, 
and  pale  blue ;  then  came  snowballs  and  lovely  jon- 
quils, with  the  spicy  clove  pink,  fragrant  with  the 
precious  memories  of  my  dear  mother's  old-time 
flower  garden. 

June  showered  upon  us  the  most  exquisite  roses  — 
soft  delicate  pink  ones,  like  a  "  bride  full  of  blushes," 
and  pure  white,  with  the  mossiest  of  buds  and  stems ; 
big  velvety  crimson  ones,  too,  almost  as  fine  as 
jacqueminots. 

About  this  time  we  began  to  suspect  that  we  had 
unwittingly  become  the  possessors  of  another  Vale 
of  Cashmere,  and  would  not  have  been  greatly  sur- 
prised by  the  sudden  appearance  of  temples,  grottos, 
and  fountains  in  our  estate. 

Though  these  things  did  not  materialize,  there 
came  a  sudden  rush  of  herbs  —  anise,  dill,  thyme, 
summer  savory,  and  sweet  basil,  in  company  with 
that  venerable  plant  known  as  "old  man,"  which  I 
am  sure  you  must  have  met  in  childhood. 

One  day  I  heard  Tom  exclaim,  "Hello,  my  old- 
time  friend !  I  thought  you  belonged  in  this  clique ; 
I've  been  looking  for  you  these  many  days.  Kath- 
arine, did  you  ever  see  any  '  live  forever '  ?  " 

"Yes,  plenty  of  it  —  about  the  time  the  morning 
stars  first  sang  together." 

"  Well,  do  come  and  see  this !    It  looks  just  as  it 


Jftom  an  2Dregon  Kancft 

did  a  hundred  years  ago.  Dear  me!  how  it  does 
bring  back  my  summer  at  Uncle  Jim's ! " 

"  Did  they  have  it  there  ?  "  I  inadvertently  asked. 

"Did  they?  Well,  I  should  say  they  did!  My 
bare  feet  were  always  hot  with  stone  bruises,  which 
my  aunt  Sarah  poulticed  with  these  cool  pulpy  leaves ; 
sometimes  she  put  with  them — " 

Foreseeing  a  torrent  of  reminiscences,  I  hastily  re- 
marked, "  We  don't  need  poultices  now ;  but  the  stuff 
looks  nourishing  —  I  wonder  how  it  would  do  for 
greens?" 

This  happened  in  our  starvation  days. 

"Let's  try  a  dash  at  it,  Katharine;  the  Chinese 
eat  plantain,  and  this  looks  a  mighty  sight  more 
fattening." 

Our  culinary  works  were  reticent  on  the  subject 
of  "live  forever"  ;  otherwise,  goaded  on  by  hunger, 
I  should  probably  have  stewed  a  little  just  for  sauce. 

Sheltering  this  benefactor  of  bruised  boyish  feet 
was  a  very  bushy  tree,  with  a  curious  leaf,  which  we 
watched  anxiously  until  early  May,  when  it  suddenly 
hung  out  hundreds  of  long  drooping  racemes,  much 
like  locust  blooms,  only  of  bright  canary  color. 
Flashing  in  the  sunlight,  it  was  like  a  shower  of  gold, 
and  worth  "  coming  miles  to  see."  We  now  think  it 
a  Scotch  laburnum. 

Here,  too,  was  the  wreck  of  a  honeysuckle,  care- 
fully staked  about,  hinting  of  something  choice;  but 
the  omnivorous  Angora  (goat,  not  cat)  had  reached 

[135] 


jFtom  3n  Oregon  Kancf) 

over  the  barricade  and  eaten  it  off  almost  to  the 
ground.  Tom  dug  about  its  roots,  enriched  the  soil, 
and  encouraged  it  with  a  trellis,  which  it  gratefully 
climbed  and  now  covers  luxuriantly,  though  it  has 
not  yet  seen  fit  to  reward  him  with  a  blossom.  Un- 
der one  of  the  windows  were  the  remains  of  an  Eng- 
lish ivy;  given  special  treatment,  today  its  dark 
glossy  leaves  cover  the  lower  part  of  the  house  and 
peep  inquisitively  in  at  the  window.  Loitering  along 
the  walls,  gathering  roses,  now  blooming  in  perfec- 
tion, all  these  things  seemed  very  old-fashioned  and 
sweet,  lying  so  quietly  under  the  soft  shadows  of  the 
early  morning.  I  realized  to  the  full  that  — 

"There's  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer, 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer." 

If  there  were  a  price,  an  Oregon  June  in  the  hills 
would  "  come  high,"  I  am  sure,  and  that  would  bar 
us  out.  After  filling  the  rose  bowls,  I  went  to  the 
garden  for  white  carnations;  coming  back  through 
the  tall  grasses  of  the  orchard,  I  gathered  many 
strange  varieties  of  the  airy,  fairy  things,  waving 
now  in  a  slender  vase  near  me,  looking  as  fine  and 
delicate  as  spun  glass. 

After  the  breakfast  work  was  done,  looking  about 
for  more  worlds  to  conquer,  I  thought  of  the  wild 
strawberries  ripening  on  the  hillside ;  a  dish  of  them 
would  pleasantly  surprise  the  home-comers,  and 


jFrom  an  2Dtegon 

Sheila  would  be  charmed  by  such  an  excursion. 
Sheila  is  our  Scotch  shepherd  dog,  given  me  a  year 
ago  by  a  genuine  dog  lover,  a  kind  girl  friend  of  the 
hills.  When  she  came  to  us,  she  was  a  woolly  little 
thing,  like  a  soft  fluffy  ball  of  chenille;  now  she  is  a 
graceful,  light-footed  creature,  with  a  small  pointed 
head,  and  honest  eyes  of  clear  gray,  just  matching 
her  coat;  she  looks  the  true-born  patrician,  and  is 
one.  Having  no  dog  friends,  she  has  to  depend  upon 
us  for  society,  and  we  talk  to  her  about  everything, 
and  rather  think  she  understands.  I  said,  "  Sheila, 
would  you  like  to  go  up  on  Mount  Nebo  ?  "  She  was 
on  her  feet  in  an  instant,  eyes  dancing,  plumy  tail 
waving,  as  she  took  the  basket  in  her  white  teeth  and 
went  proudly  cavorting  up  the  hillside.  After  reach- 
ing the  delectable  land  and  delivering  the  basket 
reluctantly,  she  hurried  away  to  inspect  various  sur- 
rounding mole  hills  and  gopher  hills,  entertaining, 
perhaps,  a  secret  hope  of  scaring  up  a  "  Chiny,"  all  of 
which  was  so  wildly  exciting  that  she  had  frequently 
to  dash  back  and  poke  her  little  pointed  face  up  in 
my  sunbonnet,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Isn't  this  a  high 
old  time  that  we  are  having  ?" 

The  berries  were  plentiful,  though  very  small. 
They  lie  so  close  to  the  ground  that  Bert  always 
speaks  of  digging  them.  The  filling  of  my  basket 
was  a  work  of  time;  when  it  was  accomplished,  that 
hillside  was  as  hot  as  a  fiery  furnace.  Gasping  for 
breath,  I  hurried  to  the  shade  of  a  mighty  fir  —  one 

[137] 


JFrom 

that  Tom  calls  the  guardian  of  the  ranch,  as  it  stands 
not  far  from  the  summit  of  Mount  Nebo.  It  was 
deliciously  cool  there,  and  as  it  seemed  an  agreeable 
place  in  which  to  perform  a  disagreeable  task,  I 
poured  the  berries  out  on  the  grass  and  began  the 
tedious  process  of  stemming  them,  under  the  watch- 
ful supervision  of  the  gray  huntress,  who,  wearying 
of  the  pursuit  of  the  ever-vanishing  "  Chiny,"  had 
come  up  panting  and  thrown  herself  down  to  watch 
beside  me. 

It  was  glorious  away  up  there,  high  above  the  work 
and  worry  of  the  world.  Before  me  was  that  solemn 
crescent  of  dark  green  hills,  towering  so  high  that 
I  sometimes  think  those  topmost  firs  must  brush 
against  the  walls  of  the  unseen  city.  Half-way 
down,  smoke,  blue  as  the  sea,  curled  up  from  the 
invisible  cabin  of  a  bachelor  woodsman.  "  What  can 
the  man  be  cooking  this  hot  day?"  I  asked  myself. 
Far  below  lay  the  quiet  glen  dotted  with  trees  and 
patches  of  waving  grain  —  shade  here,  shine  there; 
birds  flying  up  and  over,  singing  as  they  flew.  Near 
us  in  the  grass  were  tall  wand-like  lavender  blossoms, 
with  French  pinks  of  many  colors,  and  the  white 
parasols  of  the  wild  parsnip  bobbing  everywhere; 
bees  were  lazily  droning,  and  yellow  butterflies  drift- 
ing like  rose  petals  through  the  air. 

"Oh,  Sheila,  isn't  it  beautiful  —  this  great  round 
earth,  that  swings  in  the  smile  of  God!"  I  cried  to 
my  companion. 


jfrom  an  Oregon 

The  plumy  tail  lashed  the  grass  acquiescently. 
"  I  do  wish  that  you  could  talk,  Sheila,"  I  added. 

Then  the  wistful  gray  eyes  looked  up;  the  small 
pointed  head  lifted,  tilted  anxiously,  trying  so  hard 
to  understand  that  I  hastened  to  say,  "  Never  mind, 
my  mute  little  Highland  Princess;  you  are  faithful 
and  true,  and  far  more  companionable  than  many 
who  can  talk."  Understanding  the  tone  of  approval, 
a  hot  little  tongue  forgivingly  caressed  my  berry- 
stained  hand. 

So  long  did  we  linger  in  that  cool  retreat  that  I 
was  horrified  to  hear  the  clock  strike  twelve  as  we 
entered  the  house.  "Too  bad!  The  half  of  my 
lovely  day  gone  like  a  tale  that  is  told,"  I  cried  re- 
morsefully. Looking  at  the  big  black  range,  I 
thought,  "  Allah  be  praised !  I  don't  have  to  fire  you 
up  and  cook  dinner."  That  alone  was  joy  enough 
for  a  whole  day — to  be  able  to  check  off  one  meal 
from  the  1095  of  them  looming  up  yearly  before 
every  servantless  housekeeper.  A  slice  of  smooth 
cool  curd,  with  a  dash  of  nutmeg  and  powdered 
sugar,  deluged  with  thick  Jersey  cream,  made  a 
luncheon  good  enough  for  royalty  itself.  My  pre- 
cious berries  I  saved  to  delight  and  refresh  the 
wanderers  on  their  return. 


XVI 

"OU  must  not  think  that  ranch  life  con- 
sists chiefly  of  trout-fishing  and  straw- 
berry-picking, with  long  intervals  of 
rest  under  blossoming  trees.  Some 
friends  —  judging  from  their  letters  —  seem  to  have 
an  idea  that  living  as  we  do  in  this  out-of-the-way 
place,  free  from  social  duties,  our  days  are  days  of 
elegant  leisure,  and  life  just  one  long  holiday.  There- 
fore, to  prove  to  you  that  we  are  not  being  "  carried 
to  the  skies  on  flowery  beds  of  ease,"  I  must  tell  you 
something  of  the  "  demnition  grind  "  of  this  new  life. 
Be  it  known,  then,  that  here  it  is  impossible  to  ob- 
tain house  help  even  for  a  day  —  the  few  women 
living  in  the  hills  having  more  work  in  their  own 
homes  than  they  are  able  to  do. 

We  were  warned  of  this  before  coming  up  here, 
and  were  advised  to  be  sure  to  bring  with  us  a  wash- 
ing machine.  I  well  remember  that  dreary  purchase ! 

[140] 


Jfrom  an  £Dre0on 

Outside  there  was  a  drizzling  rain;  inside  an  inter- 
ested salesman  dragging  from  its  dusty  lair  the  un- 
gainly monster,  cheerfully  extolling  its  many  merits 
and  possibilities  —  a  panegyric  lost  upon  one  at  least 
of  his  hearers,  who,  with  a  feeling  of  sadness  almost 
akin  to  pain,  looked  at  the  ugly  thing,  standing  on 
four  straddling  stilts,  seeing  only  a  succession  of  blue 
Mondays  and  gray  skies  through  an  atmosphere  of 
steaming  suds.  Prospective  wash  days,  however, 
held  no  terror  for  Tom;  he  rose  to  the  occasion 
grandly,  declaring  with  much  animation  that  he  be- 
lieved he  would  rather  like  the  novelty  of  the  thing 
—  that  it  would  be  his  pride  and  pleasure  "  to  make 
the  wheels  go  round."  But  after  one  or  two  experi- 
ences his  enthusiasm  drifted  away  like  an  ebbing 
tide;  and  I  soon  learned  that  if  there  was  any  one 
day  upon  which  farm  work  pressed  more  heavily 
than  another,  that  day  was  Monday ;  though  the  gen- 
tleman was  always  very  sorry  his  own  work  was  so 
crowding  —  hoping  that  the  next  Monday  he  would 
be  "  able  to  grasp  the  helm."  It  seems  strange,  but 
even  at  this  late  day  his  work  continues  to  "  crowd  " 
on  Monday,  though  it  always  seems  to  ease  up  a  little 
toward  the  middle  of  the  week. 

You  will  remember  that  the  rainy  season  was  on 
when  we  came  here;  consequently  the  drying  of 
clothes  was  a  problem,  and  to  hang  them  on  the  line, 
stretched  across  a  hillside  as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a 
house,  required  the  dexterity  of  a  mountain  climber. 


JFrom  an  flDregon 

The  ground,  covered  with  soft  decaying  leaves,  was 
as  slippery  as  if  soaped.  To  keep  one's  feet  one  must 
cling  to  the  line  with  one  hand  while  hanging  clothes 
with  the  other ;  and  very  often  they  were  still  swing- 
ing there,  dripping  wet,  when  the  next  Monday 
dawned.  I  having  written  to  a  friend  about  these 
difficulties,  she  wrote  back:  "Make  your  laundry 
work  light;  put  away  your  table  linen,  use  plate 
doilies  and  paper  napkins."  Telling  Mary  of  this 
advice,  she  said,  "The  lady  has  forgotten  that  we 
are  agriculturists.  Now  just  fancy  these  men,  clad 
in  blue  jeans  and  cowhides,  confronting  a  doily  of 
Mexican  drawn  work ! "  It  was  rather  absurd ;  but 
still  the  advice  was  not  quite  lost,  and  the  result  was 
that  some  of  our  long  cloths  were  cut  into  luncheon 
cloths,  exactly  fitting  the  top  of  the  table ;  with  a  wide 
hem  on  the  four  sides  they  looked  reasonably  well, 
and  saved  much  labor.  Emboldened  by  this  success, 
the  Japanese  napkin  was  then  introduced  —  not  with- 
out protest,  however,  as  Tom  remarked,  "  I  'd  much 
prefer  a  paper  bag  to  this  thing ! " 

"  You  would  find  it  harsh,  Thomas,  and  rather  un- 
yielding," replied  his  determined  spouse. 

"Now  isn't  that  a  dandy  affair  for  the  use  of  a 
robust  farmer?"  he  continued,  holding  out  a  hand 
with  the  delicate  paper  squeezed  into  a  tight  little 
wad  that  would  scarcely  have  filled  a  thimble.  It 
certainly  did  look  small,  but  there  was  no  relenting 
in  the  heart  of  the  washerwoman. 


jFtom  an  fl)regon 

When  we  visited  each  other,  linen  napkins  were 
brought  forth  —  for  custom's  sake  —  though  it  was 
tacitly  understood  that  they  were  not  to  be  used, 
and  we  women  never  forgot.  I  have  often  been 
moved  almost  to  tears  to  see  how  promptly  and 
carefully  Mary  laid  hers  aside. 

Sometimes  one  or  the  other  of  the  men,  forgetting 
the  unwritten  law,  would  shake  out  his  napkin  with 
the  old-time  flourish,  whereupon  his  hostess  was  apt 
suddenly  to  lose  her  vivacity,  becoming  abstracted  to 
the  neglect  of  her  duties.  In  spite  of  her  best  efforts, 
her  eyes  would  fix  themselves  upon  that  square  of 
linen,  until  the  offender,  hypnotized  into  conscious- 
ness of  his  breach  of  etiquette,  refolded  and  laid  it 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  temptation.  The  feast  over, 
behold  Mary  and  me,  with  smiles  "childlike  and 
bland,"  "  gathering  our  sheaves,"  still  in  their  origi- 
nal folds,  calmly  speculating  upon  the  length  of  time 
that,  with  care  and  vigilance,  they  might  be  safely 
withheld  from  the  laundry.  Free  use  of  them  was 
permitted,  however,  on  holidays  and  anniversaries. 
It  was  really  refreshing  then  to  note  the  reckless 
abandon  with  which  they  were  flung  to  the  breeze. 
As  all  "  habits  gather  by  unseen  degrees,"  Mary  and 
I  have  now  about  persuaded  ourselves  that  the  use  of 
linen  napkins  between  the  beginning  of  the  rainy  sea- 
son and  the  singing  of  the  bluebirds  is  really  "bad 
form"! 

While  discussing  our  household  problems,  I  must 

[143] 


JFrom  3n  2Dregon  Kancfi 

tell  you  about  the  care  of  milk,  which  is  hardly  the 
pleasant  pastime  once  pictured  by  my  imagination  — 
such  a  never-ending  straining,  skimming,  and  wash- 
ing of  pails  and  cans ! 

Unfortunately  we  had  bought  cans  much  too  large 
for  our  needs  —  which  is  only  one  among  many  of 
the  mistakes  of  our  inexperience.  Having  been  told 
by  the  books  that  "  deep  setting "  was  desirable,  we 
went  in  for  it  —  and  we've  got  it;  the  washing  of 
one  of  these  tall  tin  cans  is  like  reaching  into  the 
depths  of  the  great  tun  of  Heidelberg. 

There  was  no  milk  house  on  the  place  when  we 
came,  and  no  cellar  —  they  seem  not  to  have  cellars 
in  Oregon  —  and  as  the  weather  grew  warm  the  milk 
soured,  and  the  heart  of  Martha  was  troubled.  After 
worrying  along  for  a  time,  one  morning  Tom  said, 
"  I've  an  inspiration,  Katharine !  This  day  thou 
shalt  behold  a  milk  house ! " 

After  several  hours  had  passed  I  was  called  to 
come  out  and  view  the  edifice.  I  sallied  forth  and 
found  one  of  our  largest  packing  boxes  placed  under 
the  shade  of  a  big  alder,  directly  over  the  little  spring 
rivulet,  with  a  wooden  trough  inside,  through  which 
ran  the  water  in  which  the  cans  were  to  stand.  Half 
the  top  of  the  box  was  hinged  to  fold  back;  but  as  it 
was  found  that  the  mistress  of  the  manse  was  unable 
to  reach  the  cans,  even  when  standing  on  a  chair,  the 
architect  was  obliged  to  hinge  the  upper  half  of  one 
side  to  let  down  instead  of  lift  up.  Four  poles  driven 

1 144  ] 


jFrom  3n  S)re0on  Kancfc 

into  the  ground  supported  an  old  porch  awning 
which  served  as  a  canopy  for  this  masterpiece. 

Rather  primitive  it  was,  although,  as  Tom  said, 
"  It  beats  nothing."  It  truly  did,  and  I  was  grateful 
for  it  —  though  not  long  before  I  had  visions  of  a 
picturesque  stone  milk  house,  overgrown  with  Eng- 
lish ivy,  myself  walking  about  in  the  cool  interior, 
directing  my  dairy  maids,  somewhat  after  the  man- 
ner of  the  vigorous  Mrs.  Poyser.  When  I  have  an 
errand  at  this  sylvan  shrine,  I  have  only  to  walk 
across  a  long  porch,  go  down  three  steps,  descend  a 
steep  little  hill,  turn  a  sharp  angle,  and  I  am  there. 
Then  I  lift  up  the  altar  cloth,  pull  hard  a  leather  strap 
hooked  over  a  nail,  turn  the  side  door  down,  fold 
back  the  upper  one,  reach  in  and  drag  out  those  mon- 
strous cans,  each  dripping  with  water.  The  thing  is 
not  magnificent,  but 't  will  serve ;  at  any  rate,  it  keeps 
our  milk  cool  and  sweet. 

You  perhaps  have  read  that  little  story,  "  Twenty 
Miles  from  a  Lemon."  Now  we  are  twenty  miles 
from  a  loaf  of  bread,  which  is  worse.  One  can  live 
without  lemons,  but  not  without  the  staff  of  life; 
consequently  one  must  bake,  though  the  heavens  fall, 
twice  or  three  times  each  week.  Furthermore,  we 
have  learned  here  that  it  will  not  do  to  buy  the 
roasted  and  ground  coffee,  as  at  home ;  having  to  be 
bought  in  such  large  quantities,  sufficient  to  last  for 
weeks,  it  soon  loses  both  its  strength  and  its  aroma. 
An  old  coffee  mill  nailed  to  the  side  of  the  wood- 


JFrom  an  Oregon 

house  conveyed  to  us  the  hint  that  people  living  so  far 
from  town  usually  ground  their  own  coffee.  There- 
upon we  bought  a  new  mill  and  a  supply  of  the  green 
berry,  which  must  be  roasted  twice  each  week  and 
ground  twice  daily. 

Having  neither  electricity  nor  gas  lights,  we  had 
to  fall  back  upon  the  fragrant  kerosene ;  and  dreary 
enough  it  seemed  at  first,  Tom  declaring  a  good 
healthy  lightning  bug  would  be  quite  as  satisfactory. 
For  a  time  the  care  of  those  lamps  seemed  a  burden 
greater  than  I  could  bear,  but  now,  though  it  has  not 
fallen  from  me,  and  never  will,  I  fear,  I  have  become 
resigned  to  the  task  as  a  part  of  the  price  one  must 
pay  for  the  "  freedom  of  the  hills."  And  yet  I  do 
feel  the  revival  of  the  coffee  mill  and  the  lamp  as  a 
retrogression. 

While  I  am  becoming  accustomed  to  the  absence 
of  gas  for  illuminating  purposes,  I  bitterly  deplore 
the  loss  of  my  gas  range;  the  heat  of  a  monstrous 
wood  range  in  summertime,  in  a  kitchen  blessed  with 
but  one  window,  is  beyond  description.  I  honestly 
believe  that  if  one  out  searching  for  Hades  should 
about  the  noon  hour  poke  his  head  in  my  kitchen, 
he  would  instantly  shout,  "Eureka!  Eureka !"  and 
cease  his  quest. 

This  range,  to  be  kept  up  to  the  mark  of  duty, 
when  fed  by  the  light  dry  fir  wood  used  here,  must  be 
crammed  unceasingly;  it  gulps  down  a  half-dozen 
sticks  in  as  many  minutes  and  immediately  sulks  for 


Jfrom  an  flDregon  Hand 

more.  To  keep  the  pot  boiling  with  such  fuel  re- 
quires eternal  vigilance. 

There  is  no  cooling  off  here  by  drinking  ice  water, 
for,  alas !  there  is  no  ice.  While  spring  water  is  cold, 
one  can't  help  longing  for  the  tinkle  of  ice  in  the 
pitcher ;  and  iceless  lemonade  is,  as  we  have  found  to 
our  sorrow,  "flat,  stale,  and  unprofitable."  Ice 
cream  and  those  refreshing  water  ices!  —  let  me  not 
speak  of  them,  for  "  that  way  madness  lies." 

The  other  day  I  threw  a  big  gunnysack  over  our 
old  freezer,  just  as  a  veil  to  hide  the  past. 

The  lack  of  ice,  of  course,  causes  much  extra  work 
and  trouble  in  caring  for  food.  Until  now  I  never 
half  appreciated  a  refrigerator;  but,  as  Tom  says, 
"We  never  miss  the  water  till  the  well  runs  dry." 
As  our  well  is  a  spring,  we  hope  we  may  be  spared 
that  calamity.  This  spring  is  near  —  just  at  the  end 
of  the  kitchen  porch  —  and  yet  the  water  for  use 
must  all  be  carried  in.  Less  convenient,  surely,  than 
the  turning  of  a  faucet  above  the  kitchen  sink ! 

We  have  other  trials  and  privations  —  and  com- 
pensations also.  At  home  the  vegetables  we  use  are 
brought  us  from  the  markets.  Here  we  must  our- 
selves go  to  the  garden  for  them ;  this  takes  time,  but 
I  am  always  glad  to  go  —  glad  to  go  anywhere,  to 
escape  the  consuming  breath  of  that  life-destroying 
fiend  of  the  kitchen.  There,  in  the  fruit-canning  sea- 
son, the  fruit  in  cases  and  baskets  is  delivered  at  the 
door;  here  we  must  pick  it  from  the  trees  —  such 


«f  torn  an  2Dtegon 

delightful  work  that  I  can't  even  pretend  to  complain 
of  it.  Today,  gathering  rosy  peach-plums  under  that 
tent  of  green  leaves,  I  felt  so  insufferably  proud  that 
had  the  arrogant  "  Mrs.  Lofty  "  passed  by  with  her 
carriage  and  coachman,  I  could  not  but  have  smiled 
upon  her  disdainfully. 

Unfortunately  for  me,  Tom  has  recently  learned 
in  some  way  that  corn  bread  is  a  nourishing  food  for 
young  chickens  (I  knew  it  long  ago  —  read  it  in  a 
book — but  kept  still  about  it),  and  I  have  now  to 
bake  about  a  yard  of  it  daily.  As  Mrs.  Todgers,  of 
boarding-house  fame,  said  of  the  making  of  gravy 
for  single  gentlemen,  "  That  one  item  has  aged  me 
ten  years." 

This  tale  of  woe  might  be  continued  indefinitely, 
but  enough  has  been  said  to  show  that  our  "  leisure  " 
is  not  really  burdensome ;  that  we  are  not  quite  all  the 
time  sitting  with  folded  hands,  "rapt  in  nameless 
reverie."  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  toil,  the  hardships, 
and  the  privations  of  this  life,  these  Oregon  scenes 
are  so  dear  to  me  that  I  would  not  exchange  this 
woodsy  old  ranch  for  the  finest  of  city  homes,  with  a 
retinue  of  servants  and  ten  thousand  a  year  thrown 
in.  I  am  far  happier  here  under  these  dark  firs,  with 
the  wood  pigeons  and  the  owls,  the  fresh  air,  and  the 
glorious  freedom  of  the  hills. 


BUSY  time  indeed  we  hill-dwellers 
have  been  having  for  the  past  six  weeks ! 
Such  hurrying  to  and  fro,  such  rushing 
in  and  out,  such  fetching  and  carrying, 
such  toiling  and  moiling,  as  if  the  pros- 
perity of  the  nation  depended  upon  our  individual 
activity — surely  I  never  saw  the  like  of  it  before. 

What  is  it  all  about  ?  Why,  we've  been  a-harvest- 
ing,  and  a-gathering  in  the  sheaves,  and  a-threshing 
of  'em;  and  I've  been  a-standing  over  that  fiery 
dragon  of  a  kitchen  stove,  canning  fruit,  making  a 
bewildering  confusion  of  jams,  jellies,  marmalades, 
and  preserves,  with  sweet-pickling  and  sour-pickling 
and  chili-saucing,  and  all  the  other  evils  flesh  is  heir 
to  thrown  in  as  a  side  issue ;  and  I  haven't  had  time  to 
take  a  deep,  full  breath  since  the  middle  of  August. 
However,  it  was  not  of  these  things  that  I  in- 
tended to  write  today ;  rather,  of  certain  good  fortune 

[149] 


JFtom  3n  2Dre0on  Kancft 

that  has  just  come  to  me — and  on  wash  day,  too, 
when  I  never  look  for  anything  but  sodden,  suds- 
soaked  misery. 

Let  me  tell  you,  first,  that  this  being  forced  to  do 
one's  own  laundry  work  is  the  worst  feature  of  ranch 
life.  The  shadow  of  the  coming  event  actually  dark- 
ens my  Sundays,  and  by  Monday  morning  I  have 
generally  reached  the  depths  of  gloom. 

In  this  mood  I  remarked  at  breakfast,  rather  sav- 
agely* "I  wish  to  goodness  some  Croesus  would 
scatter  some  of  his  superfluous  millions  among  poor 
and  needy  ranch  folk !  What's  the  sense  of  giving 
organs  and  libraries  to  people  who  don't  want  them, 
and  of  endowing  universities  that  get  mad  about  it 
and  are  ashamed  of  their  origin?" 

Thomas,  recognizing  the  Monday  morning  mad- 
ness, showed  no  surprise  at  this  outburst,  but  placidly 
inquired,  "Have  you  a  specially  crying  need  of 
wealth  this  morning  ?  What  do  you  want  to  buy  ?  " 

"Nothing — I  want  to  build.  If  my  esteemed 
friend  Mr.  Carnegie  would  favor  me  with,  well,  say 
this  coffee  pot  full  of  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces,  I'd 
proceed  at  once  to  erect  a  steam  laundry,  out  of  sight 
and  sound  of  this  house,  away  back  in  the  canyon 
in  its  darkest,  deepest  depths;  and  I'd  have  a  China- 
man to  operate  it,  and  Mr.  Mantalini  himself  to  pre- 
side over  the  mangle,  and  a  big  bandanna-browed 
lady  of  African  descent  to  hand  out  the  soiled  linen 
to  that  Mongolian ;  and  I'd  have  nothing  at  all  to  do 

[150] 


Jftom  an  flDregon  Katufc 

with  this  unpleasant  business  until  the  clothes  were 
returned,  smooth  and  immaculate,  in  beautiful  In- 
dian baskets,  each  separate  package  wrapped  in  white 
tissue  paper,  ribbon-bound,  with  sprays  of  sword 
fern,  wild  lavender,  and  mountain  laurel  tucked  in. 
That's  what  I'd  do  if  I  had  the  necessary  wealth!" 

"  Great  Scott !  but  you  are  soaring  this  morning, 
Katharine !  Methinks  e'en  now  I  behold  the  opium- 
tinged  gentleman  from  Hong  Kong,  in  flowing  Ori- 
ental robes,  entering  my  suite  of  apartments,  bearing 
an  Injin  tray  of  manzanita,  upon  which  lie  in  state 
my  dark  blue  overalls  and  my  blue  jumper,  with  one 
lone  red  bandanna  glowing  upon  its  pulseless  breast, 
and  these  all  swathed  about  with  tissue  paper  and 
baby  ribbon,  a  cute  little  wisp  of  golden  rod  tucked 
in  the  left  hip  pocket  of  my  blue  jeans.  Bon  ami! 
How  absurd!" 

"Bon  ami!  —  I  don't  know  what  it  means,  and  I 
doubt  if  you  do." 

"  I  don't,  Katharine,  but  we've  got  to  work  up  in 
the  languages  a  little  if  we  are  going  to  have  a  house- 
ful of  foreign-born  menials ;  they  will  be  likely  to  act 
sort  of  uppish  at  times,  then  I'll  roar  at  'em  in 
French,  and  I  fancy  it  will  be  pretty  scary." 

"It  certainly  will  be  awesome  —  your  kind  of 
French.  But  do  listen  to  that  clock  striking  seven ! " 

"Tempus  fugit  —  to  continue  my  classic  form  of 
speech ;  and  as  your  thought  waves  are  not  likely  to 
reach  the  shekel-dispenser  of  Skibo  in  time  to  bring 

[151] 


jfrom  9in  2Dregon 

returns  before  next  week,  shall  I  rise  and  fill  the 
wash  boiler  as  of  yore?" 

"You  may,  if  you  please  —  as  Chang  Wang's 
barque  seems  to  be  detained  by  head  winds." 

While  we  were  engaged  in  the  task  of  gathering 
together  the  depressing  laundry  outfit,  my  assistant 
earnestly  assured  me  that  he  "really  would  take  a 
hand  today"  —  as  it  was  probably  the  last  time  the 
work  would  be  done  at  the  house  —  only  that  he  was 
just  compelled  to  put  new  sills  under  the  cattle  barn, 
as  it  was  liable  to  tumble  down  any  minute. 

As  the  structure  referred  to  has  stood  for  about  a 
quarter  of  a  century,  it  seemed  possible  the  crash 
might  not  have  come  today  —  and  I  believe  I  hinted 
as  much,  as  I  went  about  radiating  sweetness  and 
light. 

Not  long  after  this  there  might  have  been  seen 
upon  the  back  porch  of  the  Ranch  of  the  Pointed 
Firs  a  woman's  waving  shadow,  bowing  and  bending 
low  above  a  wash  tub,  the  shadow  muttering  — 

"For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep." 

After  an  hour  or  more  of  hard  work,  I  observed 
Thomas  coming  up  from  the  ruins  of  Palmyra,  and 
hoping  to  awaken  a  spark  of  compassion  in  his  ada- 
mantine bosom,  I  put  on  my  most  fagged  expression, 
rubbing  so  fast  and  with  such  force  that  every  loose 


Jftom  3n  2Dregon 

thing  on  the  porch  was  jingling  when  he  reached  it. 

But,  alas  for  my  misplaced  hopes!  he  passed  me 
with  a  cheerful,  "  Lay  on,  Macduff ! " 

Then  "  the  breaking  waves  dashed  high,"  and  the 
white  foam  flew,  but  the  Madonna  of  the  tubs  spake 
no  word. 

He  came  for  some  tool,  as  nearly  as  I  could  judge 
without  looking  at  him  —  which  I  disdained  to  do. 
When  starting  back,  he  halted  to  say,  "A  mighty 
tough  time  I'm  having  with  that  old  shack.  Casual- 
ties up  to  the  present  hour,  one  mashed  thumb,  two 
blood  blisters  on  left  hand,  three  fir  splinters  in 
right."  Then  he  waited  a  little  for  some  expression 
of  sympathy ;  but  nothing  was  heard  on  the  porch  but 
the  hurrying  hand  of  the  wash  lady. 

Advancing  by  easy  stages  to  the  colored  clothes,  I 
found  among  them  a  pair  of  overalls  —  new  ones,  as 
stiff  as  buckram.  In  one  pocket  I  discovered  about 
half  a  pound  of  nails  of  various  sizes,  a  coil  of  wire, 
a  short  piece  of  rope,  and  a  leather  shoestring;  in 
another  some  plump  grains  of  vetch  and  some  large 
speckled  beans,  doubtless  carried  about  to  awaken 
envy  in  the  hearts  of  neighboring  farmers.  The 
usual  supply  of  oats  and  chaff  was  then  shaken  out, 
and  the  lightened  garments  were  plunged  in  the  tub, 
where,  becoming  inflated  with  hot  air,  they  refused 
to  down  at  my  bidding  —  just  fell  upon  their  knees, 
looking  so  like  their  owner  that  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
drowning  him.  Unmoved,  I  was  jabbing  them 

[153] 


4Ftom  an  Oregon  Hancft 

viciously  with  a  stick,  when  a  strange  voice  said, 
"  Good-morning,  ma'am ! "  I  jumped,  dropped  the 
stick,  and  the  blue  jeans  bobbed  up  like  a  jack-in-the 
box.  Near  me  stood  a  perfect  giant  of  a  man  with  a 
flour  sack  on  his  shoulder,  really  the  tallest  man  ever 
seen  outside  of  a  canvas. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Graham?" 

I  thought  of  saying,  "  No ;  I'm  Bridget  McCarty ; 
Mrs.  Graham  is  at  the  sea  shore."  But  before  I 
could  speak,  the  giant  continued,  "I've  got  some 
mail  here  for  you,"  as  he  began  untying  the  flour 
sack,  the  only  form  of  mail  bag  used  in  the  hills. 

Now  we  had  had  no  mail  for  over  two  weeks ;  and 
as  I  watched  that  towering  angel  in  corduroy  throw- 
ing out  letters,  magazines,  papers,  and  packages,  I 
could  have  fallen  upon  his  neck  in  gratitude  —  if  a 
convenient  step  ladder  had  been  near  me. 

A  pitcher  of  milk  with  a  gingerbread  accompani- 
ment was  offered,  and  graciously  accepted  by  the 
giant.  Declining  a  chair,  he  rested  on  the  edge  of  a 
table,  the  Madonna  on  the  wash  bench,  as  we  held  a 
porch  conversazione.  I  learned  that  he  was  living 
quite  alone  on  a  timber  claim,  "  about  four  mile  back 
in  the  mountains,  mighty  nigh  the  summit,  and  just 
about  at  the  end  of  things." 

"Ever  feel  lonely  up  there?"  I  ventured  to 
inquire. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  I've  lived  in  the  woods  since  I 
was  knee-high;  I  go  to  town  about  once  in  three 

[154] 


jftom  an  2)re0on  Rancft 

months,  and  then  I'm  lonesome,  uneasy  as  a  fish  out 
of  water,  just  homesick  for  the  big  trees/' 

I  recognized  a  kindred  spirit.  He  then  told  me  of 
his  work  —  of  making  rails  and  posts,  of  splitting 
shingles  and  clapboards,  of  cooking,  and  of  baking 
"  sour-dough  biscuit."  I  wondered  what  they  were. 

"And  do  you  have  to  do  this?"  I  asked,  with  a 
wave  of  my  hand  toward  the  tubs. 

"  Yes,  about  once  a  month." 

"Don't  you  just  hate  it?" 

"  You  bet  I  do ! "  (Another  link  forged  in  friend- 
ship's chain.)  "But  I  make  short  work  of  it,  slap 
'em  through  in  a  hurry  and  throw  'em  on  the  bushes 
to  dry ;  and  I  never  wash  them  things  "  —  pointing  to 
the  suds-soaked  effigy  of  Thomas,  now  slowly  sink- 
ing into  the  waters  of  oblivion.  "  You  see,  mine  get 
just  plastered  with  pitch;  water  wouldn't  even  wet 
'em.  I  wear  'em  till  things  get  to  stickin'  to  me,  then 
burn  'em." 

I  fancied  him  in  his  strange  suit  of  armor,  stalk- 
ing about  in  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  with  feathers, 
ferns,  pine  needles,  and  cones  sticking  to  him,  giving 
him  the  look  of  some  gigantic  woodland  satyr. 

But  the  best  of  friends  must  part;  his  cart  was 
soon  climbing  the  long  hills,  and  I  gathering  up  the 
mail  with  the  joy  of  Silas  Marner  gloating  over  the 
pot  of  gold  hidden  beneath  his  loom.  I  had  resolved 
to  keep  it  all  intact  until  my  work  was  done,  and  then 
enjoy  it  with  a  clear  conscience;  and  I  might  have 


jFrom  an  fl)re0on 

done  so  but  for  a  mysterious  package,  very  heavy  and 
oblong,  not  unlike  a  gold  brick,  too  tempting  to  be 
resisted.  Eager  fingers  hurriedly  removed  the  heavy 
outer  wrapper,  then  a  lighter  one,  then  one  of  tissue 
paper,  and  there  appeared  the  most  beautiful  book  — 
fine  paper,  exquisite  type,  wide  margins,  and  choice 
illustrations. 

Thinking  gratefully  and  lovingly  of  the  generous 
giver  of  my  precious  book,  and  quite  ashamed  of 
the  rebellious  mood  of  the  morning,  I  went  back  to 
my  work  with  a  light  and  happy  heart.  Something 
pleasant  had  happened  to  relieve  the  monotony  of 
toil  and  change  the  current  of  my  thought.  Work 
was  easy  now,  and  soon  those  clothes  were  fluttering 
white  upon  the  hillside.  They  were  not  slighted  in 
the  least,  either;  for  I've  learned  of  Emerson,  cor- 
roborated by  experience,  that  to  feel  "relieved  and 
gay,  one's  work  must  be  well  done,  otherwise  it  shall 
give  one  no  peace;  is  a  deliverance  which  does  not 
deliver." 

Dinner  over,  the  work  "  done  up,"  and  every  trace 
of  the  late  unpleasantness  removed,  Bridget  McCarty 
vanished  from  mortal  view ;  Mrs.  Graham  emerged 
from  seclusion,  freshly  if  not  modishly  gowned, 
seated  herself  in  a  favorite  rocker  by  a  favorite  win- 
dow, drew  another  chair  near  upon  which  was  piled 
that  blessed  mail,  then  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was 
three  p.  M.  —  two  whole  hours  before  time  to  begin 
supper. 


Jftom  an  Oregon  Kancf) 

During  those  two  hours  I  was  about  as  near  per- 
fect content  and  happiness  as  I  ever  expect  to  be  this 
side  the  gates  of  pearl.  Absorbed  in  the  delightful 
contents  of  six  plump  letters,  the  fascinations  of  a 
new  book,  and  a  multitude  of  papers  and  magazines, 
I  was  startled  when  the  clock  with  cruel  distinctness 
struck  five.  The  sound  fell  upon  my  ear  like  the 
death  knell  of  Duncan. 

Now,  if  you  think  my  pleasure  in  these  things  ex- 
aggerated, go  and  live  for  a  year  or  two  in  the  isola- 
tion of  the  woods,  far  away  from  public  libraries  and 
book  stores ;  then  let  a  surprise  and  pleasure  like  mine 
come  into  your  life,  and  see  if  your  head  also  would 
not  be  turned  just  a  little. 


•mm, 


XVIII 

POW  that  the  "mellow  autumn  days" 
have  come,  if  you  are  longing  for  — 


"  Kir  and  sunshine  and  blue  sky, 
The  feeling  of  the  breeze  upon  your 

face, 

The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  your  feet, 
And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain  tops," 

then  come  to  my  beloved  Oregon  hills.  All  for  which 
you  long  is  here ;  and  far  more,  now  that  autumn  is 
abroad  in  the  land,  standing  tiptoe  upon  the  hilltops, 
pouring  down  their  slopes  "  from  a  beaker  full  of 
richest  dyes  "  a  flame  that  setteth  the  mountains  on 
fire  and  maketh  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth.  Il- 
lustrated in  colors,  they  seem  not  the  hills  we  have 
known,  but  strangely  unfamiliar  in  this  shimmering 
radiance,  this  new  witchery  "  from  dreamland  sent." 
There  was  a  time  when  I  was  rather  skeptical  of  the 


Jfrom  an  Oregon 

existence  of  a  "  beauty  that  intoxicates,"  but  that  was 
before  coming  to  Oregon.  I  am  a  believer  now,  and 
already  half  inebriated  through  the  charm  of  this  lat- 
est revelation.  For  a  long  time  I  have  been  sitting 
on  an  old  stump  —  one  of  the  decorative  features  of 
our  woodland  lawn  —  looking  over  this  wonderland 
and  regretting  the  years  lost  in  finding  it. 

For  the  first  and  only  time  in  my  life,  I  am  happy 
and  content  in  my  environment.  Of  course  there  are 
some  ugly  old  buildings  that  mar  the  picture  —  but 
you  know  that  we  are  told  to  look  up,  not  down; 
and  looking  up,  they  are  quite  forgotten.  Such  a  sky 
as  we  have  here  today  —  blue  as  a  harebell,  and  much 
the  shape  of  one,  its  rim  just  resting  upon  this  crown 
of  dark  firs ;  crawling  up  its  western  edge,  a  low  line 
of  white  wreathing  clouds,  as  if  the  sea,  rolling  high, 
were  dashing  its  foam  there.  A  luminous  flood  of 
sunshine  is  in  the  air,  soft,  caressing,  and  sweet  with 
the  aromatic  breath  of  the  fir  trees ;  brooding  over  all 
is  "  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace,"  a  hush  unusual 
even  in  this  land  of  silence.  I  thought  —  as  I  often 
do  here  —  of  the  stillness  of  Craigenputtoch,  where 
"  for  hours  the  only  sound  is  that  of  the  sheep,  nib- 
bling the  short  grass  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away";  of 
Carlyle  writing  his  mother :  "  These  are  the  grayest 
and  most  silent  days  I  ever  saw.  My  broom,  as  I 
sweep  up  the  withered  leaves,  might  be  heard  at  a 
furlong's  distance."  I  always  think  of  that  place  as 
the  dreariest  on  earth.  "  The  house,  gaunt  and  hun- 


jFrom  3n  ffl)re0on 

gry-looking,  standing  in  its  scanty  fields  like  an 
island  in  a  sea  of  morass,  the  landscape  unredeemed 
either  by  grace  or  grandeur  —  mere  undulating  hills 
of  grass  and  heather,  with  peat  bogs  in  the  hollows." 
What  a  home  for  the  eager,  ambitious,  brilliant 
Jeannie  Welsh  Carlyle!  Away  from  all  the  refine- 
ments of  life,  shut  up  in  that  gaunt,  hungry-looking 
house  on  that  treeless  waste  with  that  tragic  man  of 
genius  —  of  terrible  earnestness  and  blackest  melan- 
choly—  is  it  any  wonder  that  she  lost  her  cheerful- 
ness and  vivacity  ? 

Though  we  have  here  the  solitude,  thank  goodness 
we  have  not  the  gray  desolation  of  Craigenputtoch 
nor  the  gloom  of  a  mar;  of  genius.  The  only  sounds 
that  come  to  me  in  this  peaceful  Eden  are  those  of 
softly  rippling  invisible  waters,  the  low  murmur  of 
insects,  the  occasional  dropping  of  the  tiny  brown 
cones  of  the  alders,  and  a  faint  rustle  of  falling 
leaves.  Nothing  more.  Even  the  clamorous  cricket 
is  silent.  Our  birds  have  long  been  mute,  and  now 
"slide  o'er  the  lustrous  woodland,"  voiceless  phan- 
toms of  the  minstrels  we  once  knew. 

But  we  have  a  visitor  who  has  brought  his  voice 
with  him.  He  has  but  lately  come  to  us,  from  out  of 
the  reeds  and  rushes  of  the  lowlands  —  a  meadow 
lark.  Every  morning  comes  floating  up  to  us  from 
this  little  glen  a  melody  so  divine  that  the  angels 
above  must  fold  their  wings  to  listen.  From  child- 
hood I  have  loved  this  bird  above  all  others.  His 

[160] 


Jfrom  3n  S)re0on  Kane!) 

notes  are  inexpressibly  mellow  and  sweet  —  tender, 
too,  with  a  perplexing  hint  of  sadness.  Is  it  the 
pathos  of  reminiscence,  of  prophecy,  or  of  passionate 
pleading?  I  try  hard  to  understand,  but  cannot.  I 
only  know  there  is  in  it  a  cadence  — 

"  That  touches  me  with  mystic  gleams, 
Like  glimpses  of  forgotten  dreams  — 
Of  something  felt,  like  something  here; 
Of  something  done,  I  know  not  where." 

Tears  fill  my  eyes  as  I  listen.  I  hope  that  "  when  I 
put  out  to  sea"  a  flight  of  this  divine  melody  may 
pilot  me  through  the  gray  mists  to  that  far-away 
shore  where  shine  the  lights  of  the  heavenly  harbor. 
The  —  I  was  going  to  say  lawn,  but  I  won't,  for 
that  word  doesn't  fit  this  lumpy,  bumpy,  gopher- 
hilled  ground ;  it  is  best,  when  you  live  in  the  woods, 
to  put  aside  affectations ;  so  henceforth  and  forever 
I  shall  say  do  or  yard.  The  dooryard  now  has  none 
of  its  June  loveliness.  While  the  grass  is  still  green, 
it  has  lost  its  freshness  through  the  drouth  and  heat 
of  summer ;  and  the  wild  flowers  that  once  blossomed 
here  are  but  a  memory.  A  few  clover  blooms,  in 
defiance  of  fate  and  frost,  are  trying  bravely  to  hold 
up  their  heads,  but  they  have  lost  the  rosy  glow  of 
youth.  All  about  me  the  dandelions  are  lifting  high 
in  air  their  gauzy  white  balloons.  They  are  quite  dif- 
ferent from  ours  at  home,  which  were  low  growers ; 
and  if  one  rashly  attempted  to  cut  down  one  of  the 

[161] 


Jfrom  an  fl)regon  Kancfc 

white-headed  veterans,  his  head  fell  off  and  blew 
away.  Here  they  are  nearly  two  feet  high,  and  that 
hollow  starry  globe  of  lacework  is  a  wonderful 
stayer.  Nearly  a  month  ago,  tempted  by  the  beauty 
of  these  delicate  transparencies,  I  cut  a  few  of  the 
slender  stems  and  stuck  them  in  a  pot  of  growing 
ferns,  not  expecting  them  to  last  more  than  a  few 
hours;  and  here  they  are  today,  those  fairy  balloons 
just  lifted  above  the  green,  fully  inflated  and  tugging 
at  their  guy  ropes. 

The  thistle  family  also  is  well  represented  here. 
Purple  with  bloom  and  white  with  down,  the  yard 
looks  like  a  cotton  field.  I  find  the  thistle  rather  in- 
teresting, now  that  I  have  left  the  vain  world  and  its 
distractions  and  have  time  to  look  at  it,  with  its  long 
narrow  leaf  deeply  notched  and  lance-tipped,  its  pur- 
ple-stained paint  brush  blossom,  its  seed  pod  —  such 
a  pretty  flaring  cup  of  wood  brown,  thickly  studded 
with  sharp  spikes  and  filled  with  tiny  brown  seeds  all 
feathered  and  ready  for  flight.  It  seems  a  wonderful 
plant,  and  must  be  possessed  of  virtues  still  unknown 
to  us,  else  why  did  Nature  take  such  pains  to  protect 
and  perpetuate  it  ? 

Holding  up  the  brown  cup,  I  blew  gently  across  it, 
and  oh,  such  a  frenzy  of  excitement  among  those 
little  feathery  folk  of  thistle  down !  They  leaped  over 
the  housetop,  tumbled  down  the  spiked  walls,  cling- 
ing frantically  to  one  another  in  that  brief  moment 
of  parting;  then,  disentangling  themselves,  floated 


JFrom  3n  2Dre0on  IRancft 


upward,  circling  about  an  instant,  took  one  last  look 
at  the  little  brown  home,  and  one  by  one  sailed  away 
into  the  blue  briery  world.  As  the  empty  cup  fell 
from  my  hand,  I  felt  half  sorry  for  those  drifting 
airy  voyagers. 

When  the  cups  have  emptied  their  contents,  they 
soon  become  round  platters,  each  with  a  fringed  lin- 
ing of  old  ivory  satin,  in  the  center  a  tiny  tufted 
couch  of  softest  down.  In  such  a  cosy  bed  had 
nestled  the  little  brown  heads  of  my  poor  wanderers. 
Why  need  I  have  meddled  with  them  ? 

Farmers  may  despise  the  thistle,  but  I'm  sure  the 
butterflies  love  it.  Oh,  the  beauties  I  have  seen  this 
day  —  not  the  delicately  tinted  butterflies  of  summer, 
but  living,  glowing  jewels,  fluttering  always  above 
the  thistles  !  One  rested  for  a  long  time  upon  a  pur- 
ple bloom  quite  near  me,  opening  and  closing  his  ex- 
quisite wings  of  black  and  gold,  sun-illumined,  like 
dainty,  gauzy  Japanese  fans. 

I  must  go  back  and  tell  you  of  the  beauty  of  that 
towering  hill  directly  in  front  of  us.  It  is  really  a 
mountain,  I  think,  but  here  we  call  it  a  hill.  We  had 
quite  forgotten  the  many  maple  trees  growing  upon 
its  slopes,  the  green  of  their  foliage  in  the  summer- 
time being  lost  in  that  of  the  firs.  Though  we  forgot, 
autumn  remembered  ;  and,  grieved  that  her  favorites 
should  remain  unrecognized  in  that  monotony  of 
green,  she  stole  softly  into  the  shadowy  forest,  traced 
up  the  lost  Cinderellas,  and  then,  with  the  gorgeous 


jFrom  an  Oregon 

dyes  of  Turner  and  the  brush  of  an  impressionist, 
splashed  all  their  broad  leaves  with  that  ineffable 
glory  which  is  the  distinctive  badge  of  the  maple 
family.  Today,  as  I  look  up  and  see  them  standing 
on  the  heights,  the  rich  blazonry  of  their  armorial 
bearings  flashing  in  the  fair  October  sunlight,  I  say 
aloud,  "  Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming 
of  the  Lord."  ' 

Such  a  blaze  of  beauty  so  near  the  sky  seems  pass- 
ing strange  to  me  coming  from  a  level  country,  seems 
alien  to  this  world,  and  I  half  believe  it  to  be  a  celes- 
tial landslide.  I  look,  and  look,  and  am  thrilled 
through  every  fiber  of  my  being.  I  feel  such  excite- 
ment, buoyancy,  exultation,  I  want  to  absorb  it  all,  to 
catch  the  luminous  picture  with  its  wavering  lights, 
its  tremulous  shadows,  and  fold  it  away  in  memory 
as  a  sort  of  sacred  amulet,  a  charm  to  be  brought 
from  its  hiding  place  when  the  dull  days  come,  as 
come  they  must  in  every  human  life. 

"Katharine!  Oh,  Katharine!" 

That's  Bert's  voice.  "  I'm  coming ! "  I  answered, 
as,  clambering  down,  I  turned  for  one  last  lingering 
look  at  those  banners  of  scarlet  and  gold  floating 
across  that  field  of  green,  like  the  passing  of  some 
royal  old-time  cavalcade,  and  I  thought  that  if  I 
should  hear  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  or  the  notes  of  a 
bugle,  see  prancing  steeds  with  gay  trappings,  and 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  plumed  heads  of  lords  and 
ladies,  followed  by  glittering  knights  with  shining 


JFrom  an  2Dre0on 

shields  and  lances,  I  should  feel  no  surprise,  but 
think  it  fitting  pageantry  for  this  "  land  o'  glamour," 
where  — 

"The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory." 

I  found  Bert  awaiting  me  with  both  hands  full. 
Mary  had  sent  a  great  bunch  of  magnificent  chrysan- 
themums, all  white  and  gold  —  the  fluffy-headed 
kind,  with  curling  petals.  He  brought,  too,  a  branch 
of  blood-red  vine  maple  that  he  had  broken  off  as  he 
came  through  the  woods,  and  some  very  curious 
lichens.  And  in  this  pleasant  but  effective  way  was 
cut  short  the  thread  of  these  autumnal  rhapsodies. 


JNCE  my  last  letter,  we  have  passed 
through  such  a  terrible  experience  that 
I  scarcely  know  how  to  describe  it.  I 
shudder  as  I  write.  Think  of  it!  —  in 
this  quiet  out-of-the-way  place,  where  we  felt  so 
safe,  so  secure!  Though  this  awful  tragedy  oc- 
curred three  nights  ago,  my  nerves  are  still  quiver- 
ing. I  feel  so  weak  and  unstrung  that  I  fear  I  can- 
not write  calmly  or  coherently  about  it. 

The  wretched  affair  happened  in  the  ball  room  — 
most  incongruous  of  places !  We  find  that  entrance 
to  the  room  was  effected  by  way  of  the  roof,  which 
the  intruder  must  have  reached  by  climbing  a  large 
alder  tree  standing  near  the  corner  of  the  house.  We 
now  believe  him  to  have  been  secreted  there  when 
we  went  to  our  beds.  My  blood  runs  cold  when  I 
think  of  it  —  but  it  dawns  upon  me  that  I  am  not 
telling  this  story  in  the  right  way.  How  do  the  re- 

[166] 


jfrom  3n  SDtegon 


porters  manage  these  things  ?  I  believe  the  tragedy 
should  have  come  later  —  that  I  should  have  led  up 
to  it  more  gradually,  describing  the  events  preceding 
it,  the  scene  of  the  conflict,  with  a  diagram  of  the 
room  showing  the  position  of  each  piece  of  furniture, 
the  hole  in  the  roof,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Now 
I'll  have  to  begin  again,  I  fear,  and  do  it  all  over. 

Soon  after  coming  here,  believing  that  our  danc- 
ing days  were  over,  we  decided  to  reform  the  ball 
room  by  making  a  bedroom  of  it.  By  doing  this  we 
could  reserve  the  only  one  below  for  a  possible  guest, 
and  could  ourselves  have  the  pleasure  of  sleeping  up- 
stairs, where  we  could  hear  the  rain  falling  upon  the 
roof.  "  Much  too  good  a  thing  to  miss,"  Tom  said, 
"  in  this  land  where  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day  — 
and  night,  too  —  for  six  months  at  a  stretch  !  " 

How  to  get  our  furniture  up  that  narrow  per- 
pendicular stairway  was  a  problem.  Fortunately,  it 
was  still  crated,  just  as  it  had  come  from  the  far 
East.  Bert  and  Mary  volunteered  their  assistance  ; 
and  finally,  through  much  pushing,  shoving,  groan- 
ing, and  some  maledictions,  the  deed  was  done.  Our 
ball  room  was  transformed.  Then  Thomas  had  some 
dark  hours  there,  removing  tacks,  nails,  screws, 
boards,  drugget,  and  excelsior,  and  putting  the  va- 
rious pieces  together,  after  which  Katharine  —  she 
who  has  lived  to  tell  the  tale  —  brought  her  mighty 
talents  to  bear  upon  the  situation,  toiling  for  days 
trying  to  bring  order  out  of  chaos. 


Jfrom  an  Oregon 

I  once  gave  you  a  description  of  the  ball  room,  but 
perhaps  you  have  forgotten  it.  The  room  is  twenty 
feet  wide  and  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long;  side 
walls,  rough,  unplaned  boards  running  up  and  down ; 
no  ceiling  overhead,  just  the  rafters  and  shingles  — 
its  spaciousness  and  beautiful  smooth  floor  its  only 
redeeming  features.  With  two  full  chamber  sets, 
and  some  extra  furniture  for  which  there  was  no 
room  below,  there  was  still  left  a  vacant  space  of  suf- 
ficient size  for  a  couple  of  cotillions. 

At  one  end  of  the  apartment  was  a  platform  about 
a  foot  high  for  the  use  of  the  musicians  in  "  the  brave 
days  of  old."  Upon  this  dais,  feeling  like  one  of 
royal  birth,  I  placed  my  bedstead.  Tom,  upon  be- 
holding it,  immediately  dubbed  my  part  of  the  room 
"Mrs.  Boffin's  Bower." 

Suspecting  spiders  in  the  roof,  we  tacked  large 
sheets  to  the  rafters  above  each  bed  —  canopies  that 
added  to  the  general  effect;  the  one  above  the  dais 
looked  so  grand  that  I  felt  a  sort  of  awe  of  it  myself. 
As  a  finishing  touch,  a  few  rugs  were  scattered  over 
the  floor.  The  decorative  artist,  turning  to  leave, 
paused  in  the  doorway  for  a  critical  examination  of 
the  "altogether,"  and  was  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  a  bedroom  in  a  barn  would  have  been  quite  as 
attractive. 

Up  to  this  time  it  had  been  raining  steadily,  though 
gently,  for  days ;  but  the  morning  my  great  work  was 
completed  it  began  pouring  in  torrents,  growing 

[168] 


JFtom  an  2Dre0on 

worse  toward  evening,  with  a  strong  wind  blowing 
straight  from  the  ocean,  something  very  unusual 
here. 

When  Tom  had  finished  his  evening  work  and  was 
standing  on  the  porch,  shaking  the  rain  from  his 
storm  coat,  he  called  out,  "A  fine  night  for  the 
Abbey,  Katharine!" 

"Yes,  won't  it  be  glorious?"  I  responded  with 
enthusiasm.  We  were  in  high  glee  —  couldn't  wait 
for  our  regular  bedtime,  but  put  our  books  aside 
early,  covered  the  embers  in  the  old  stone  fireplace, 
lighted  a  hand  lamp,  and  were  ready  for  the  ascen- 
sion soon  after  eight  o'clock. 

Do  you  remember  my  telling  you  that  one  of  the 
chief  architectural  oddities  of  this  place  was  the  lack 
of  an  entrance  to  the  second  floor  from  the  inside  of 
the  house  —  the  only  door  to  the  stairway  being  an 
outside  one  at  the  end  of  a  long  narrow  porch  ?  Tom, 
in  advance  of  me,  lamp  in  hand,  opened  the  door  of 
the  dining  room,  gave  a  whistle  of  surprise,  and  be- 
gan to  sing  — 

"  Come  ferry  me  o'er,  come  ferry  me  o'er, 
Over  the  river  to  Charlie." 

"  What's  the  matter,  Tom  ?" 
"Look  and  see!" 

I  looked,  and  beheld  the  darkness  of  a  tomb. 
There  was  a  torrent  of  rain  and  wkid  rushing 


Jfrom  an  2Dtegon  Hancfi 

through  the  wet  fir  trees,  driving  the  flame  of  the 
lamp  out  of  the  chimney,  smoking  it  black ;  the  floor 
of  the  porch  was  all  bumps  and  hollows  —  mostly 
hollows,  each  filled  with  water,  gleaming  in  the 
lamplight. 

"  It's  hideous,  Tom ;  we  can't  make  it ! " 

"  We've  got  to  make  it !  Faint  heart  ne'er  won  the 
second  floor  of  anything.  I'll  hold  my  hat  over  the 
light,  you  lock  the  door,  then  we'll  dash  for  our 
lives!" 

It  was  no  dash,  I  can  tell  you.  We  went  tiptoeing 
and  teetering  across  the  sloppy  links  like  a  couple 
of  prize  cakewalkers.  When  at  last  the  goal  was 
reached,  we  looked  at  each  other  in  speechless  amaze- 
ment. Such  an  uproar  was  never  heard  outside  of 
bedlam.  Accustomed  to  a  plastered  ceiling,  with  a 
garret  above,  this  pounding  of  the  rain  upon  a  roof 
directly  over  our  heads  was  positively  deafening.  It 
was  not  at  all  like  rain  —  more  like  a  downpour  of 
rattling  bullets  or  cobblestones.  Through  the  open 
windows  came  the  tumult  from  outside.  Deer  Leap, 
out  of  its  banks,  was  roaring  like  Niagara ;  the  wind 
was  writhing  and  swishing  through  the  fir  boughs ; 
the  spring  at  the  kitchen  was  a  mighty  cataract, 
throwing  a  big  stream  of  water  half-way  across  the 
porch. 

Avoiding  the  eye  of  my  fellow  sufferer,  I  re- 
marked indifferently,  "Sort  of  boisterous,  isn't  it?" 

"  It  does  seem  a  little  so  —  just  at  first." 

[  170-1 


jfrom  3n  SDregott 

"Yes,  I  meant  just  at  first." 

Truly,  we  could  scarcely  hear  each  other's  voices. 
After  the  lights  were  out,  the  turmoil  and  bluster 
were  even  more  terrifying.  The  dampness  of  the 
room  was  something  awful.  After  a  while  Tom 
shouted  through  the  darkness,  "  Isn't  it  sweet,  this 
gentle  patter  of  the  rain  upon  the  roof?" 

"Fine!"  I  shrieked;  "so  soothing  —  like  a  lul- 
laby!" 

"Oh,  yes!  And  this  Cataract  of  Lodore,  too,  just 
under  a  fellow's  head,  is  a  mighty  nice  thing!  To- 
morrow let's  make  us  some  megaphones." 

As  there  was  no  hope  of  sleep,  I  fell  a-thinking  of 
the  palmy  days  of  this  ball  room,  when,  as  we  are 
told,  the  devotees  of  the  dance  came  from  twenty 
miles  around  to  tread  a  gay  measure  here.  I  thought 
of  the  nail  keg  we  found  upon  the  dais,  which  had 
probably  been  used  as  a  seat  by  one  of  the  musicians, 
as  an  empty  violin  case  was  leaning  against  it. 

It  seemed  a  most  fitting  time  for  ghosts  to  walk. 
What  if  that  long-ago  violinist  should  come  back  to- 
night, and  perching  himself  on  the  chair  that  had 
ousted  his  keg,  suddenly  begin  "  to  plonk  and  plunk 
and  plink,  and  to  rosin  up  his  bow,"  and  should  start 
up  all  the  phantom  belles  and  beaux  of  the  shadowy 
past,  and  I  should  hear  slippered  and  pumped  feet 
sliding  up  and  down  the  long  room  —  should  catch 
the  scent  of  bergamot  and  patchouli  and  other  old- 
time  flavors? 


Jfrom  an  2Dregon 

Just  here  I  heard  above  the  roar  of  the  tempest: 
"  Honors  to  your  partners !  Join  hands  and  circle  to 
the  left !  Balance  all !  Swing  on  the  corners ! " 

"Goodness,  Tom!  are  you  crazy?" 

"  No,  ma'am;  it's  just  water  on  the  brain,  I  think. 
But  didn't  you  hear  him — that  old  fiddler  at  the 
head  of  your  bed,  jerking  off  '  Old  Dan  Tucker,'  and 
all  the  fellows  skating  across  the  room  to  secure 
their  partners?  Just  to  be  friendly,  I  thought  I'd 
call  off  for  the  spooks." 

After  a  time  the  deluge  ceased,  and  then  the  ball 
room  became  an  ideal  place  for  sleep.  It  was  de- 
lightful to  lie  there,  listening  to  softly  falling  rain, 
night  winds  soughing  through  the  forest,  owls  hoot- 
ing in  the  orchard  —  nature  music  as  deliciously  lull- 
ing to  the  senses  as  the  "  drowsy  wine  of  poppies." 

But  the  midnight  adventure  can  no  longer  be 
postponed. 

During  the  night  I  woke  suddenly  without  any 
apparent  cause,  but  with  the  sure  consciousness  of 
something  being  wrong,  soon  verified  by  the  strang- 
est of  sounds,  as  if  tiny  soft  hands  were  very  gently 
patting  time  for  unseen  dancers  —  an  awfully  creepy 
sound  in  the  dark.  A  little  later  came  stealthy  foot- 
steps, nearer  and  nearer,  seeming  to  approach  the 
dais.  Soon  there  was  a  rustling  among  some  clothes 
hanging  on  the  wall,  quite  near,  as  if  they  were 
being  fumbled  over.  Flesh  and  blood  could  endure 
no  more. 


jFrom  3n  flDregon  Rancfi 

"Tom!  Tom!  There's  somebody  in  this  room! 
Get  a  light,  quick ! " 

"  How  foolish  you  are,  Katharine !  If  you  hear 
anything  at  all  —  which  I  doubt  —  it's  only  the 
squirrels  running  over  the  roof." 

"Don't  stop  now  to  talk!  Do  hurry  with  the 
light!" 

Reluctantly  and  with  great  deliberation  he  arose, 
muttering  something  about  "idiocy"  and  "spells," 
and  just  as  he  struck  a  match,  a  horrible  hairy  crea- 
ture bounded  out  of  those  clothes,  leaped  to  the 
wall,  and  ran  along  a.  rafter  to  the  comb  of  the  roof. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  what  was  it,  Tom  ?  " 

I  secretly  believed  it  to  be  a  wildcat ;  it  was  such  a 
monster,  with  the  face  of  a  fiend,  eyes  of  fire,  and 
waving  a  big  bushy  tail  of  a  squirrel. 

"I'd  shoot  him,"  Tom  said,  rather  indifferently, 
"but  my  shotgun  is  in  the  barn,  and  just  today  I 
fired  the  last  cartridge  from  my  revolver." 

"  Get  my  rifle,"  I  cried,  swelling  with  pride.  A 
friend  visited  us  a  year  ago,  a  fine  sportsman,  who 
came  with  four  guns,  and  when  he  left  he  gave  me  a 
lovely  little  rifle. 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  Downstairs  in  the  dining  room." 

"  All  right ! "  and  off  he  started  with  the  lamp. 

"No,  you  don't — and  leave  me  here  in  the  dark 
with  this  hideous  thing ! " 

"  Such  a  coward ! "  but  he  gave  up  the  lamp,  and 

[173] 


jFrom  3n  SDtegon  Battcfc 

went  blundering  off  in  the  darkness.  After  what 
seemed  an  age,  he  returned,  remarking  with  some 
bravado,  as  he  loaded  up,  "  Now,  my  bold  outlaw, 
your  hour  has  come ! " 

I  held  the  lamp;  he  fired.  There  was  no  effect 
whatever. 

"  I  thought  you  said  his  hour  had  come! " 

"It  has  —  if  he'll  stay  there  long  enough  and  the 
ammunition  holds  out." 

Twice  again  he  shot,  and  then  the  "thing"  ran 
down  a  rafter  and  was  hidden  from  us  by  the  canopy 
above  the  dais. 

At  this  the  brave  lady  was  encouraged  to  mount 
to  the  top  of  her  bureau  and  try  to  locate  him.  With 
lamp  in  hand,  she  peered  into  the  shadows. 

"Wait!    I'll  fix  him!" 

Going  into  the  next  room,  Tom  came  back  armed 
with  one  of  the  parts  of  the  quilting  frame  we  found 
here  when  we  came. 

"  Now,  then,  just  about  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Close  against  the  side  wall." 

The  quilting  frame  cut  a  wide  swath  of  air,  and 
struck  —  solid  wood.  Running  straight  up  the 
rafter  just  over  my  head  came  the  "thing"  —  a 
poor  frightened  rat! 

"  Now,  Tom,  you  hold  the  light  and  I'll  show  you 
some  Buffalo  Bill  marksmanship."  Drawing  my 
trusty  rifle  to  my  shoulder,  I  shut  both  eyes,  and 
fired. 

[174] 


jFrom  3n  SDregon  Bancfi 

"  That  was  a  hot  shot,  Katharine !  —  he  must  have 
winked  his  other  eye  at  that!"  He  snatched  the 
smoking  weapon  from  my  hand  and  fired  again.  The 
rat  humped  his  back,  waved  his  tail  lazily,  and 
looked  down  upon  us  so  dreamily  that  I  really 
thought  he  would  be  asleep  in  another  minute. 

"  I  guess  we'll  lay  aside  our  firearms,"  Tom  said, 
"  as  we  have  already  shot  five  holes  through  the  roof. 
He  is  too  much  in  the  shadows;  we  can  never  hit 
him.  I'll  see  if  I  can't  punch  him  out  of  there  with 
this."  Mounting  my  bed  with  that  frame,  he  threw 
it  like  a  harpoon;  it  went  flying  through  the  room, 
and  down  at  my  feet,  with  a  dull,  heavy  thud,  fell 
the  rat.  Suddenly  he  left  the  open,  ran  under  the 
bed  and  up  the  wall  just  back  of  me.  Tom  struck 
at  him,  knocked  a  brass  knob  from  the  top  of  -the 
bedstead,  and  the  rat  ran  down  the  wall  near  the 
corner  of  the  room. 

"  Pull  the  bed  away,  Katharine,  and  I'll  give  him 
a  side  wipe  across  the  floor  that'll  fetch  him." 

I  sent  the  bed  spinning  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
followed  it  up,  and  climbed  to  a  chair.  The  "  side 
wipe"  was  made;  it  didn't  fetch  him,  but  it  did 
fetch  down  an  easel  and  a  picture. 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Tom,  don't  break  all  the  furni- 
ture in  the  house!  Let's  go  downstairs;  don't  let's 
kill  him  tonight ! " 

"  A  lot  of  killing  you're  doing ! "  Tom  persisted, 
prodding  under  the  washstand. 


JFrom  an  fDregon 

"If  you're  punching  for  that  rat,  he  isn't  there; 
he's  under  that  couch." 

"  Did  you  suppose  I  was  down  on  all  fours  poking 
under  that  thing  for  fun?  If  you'd  get  off  your 
perch  and  set  that  lamp  down  and  come  and  pull  this 
thing  out,  I'd  get  him  here." 

"Honestly,  Tom,  I  can't.  He  might  run  across 
my  feet." 

"Well,  do  you  think  I  want  to  chase  this  rat  all 
night?" 

"  No,  I  don't." 

"Well,  then  —  " 

Here  the  creature  under  discussion,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  family  jar,  dashed  from  his  lair,  ran 
across  the  room,  hid  behind  a  pile  of  magazines,  and 
there  met — death. 

As  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  last  act,  the  clock 
struck  one.  The  pursuit  began  at  twelve.  It  was 
an  hour  to  be  remembered. 


REALLY  can't  remember  when  I  last 
wrote  home,  but  I  think  it  was  before 
the  worst  of  our  rainy  season,  as  during 
the  greater  part  of  that  time  we  were 
hibernating,  sunk  in  a  lethargy  too  pro- 
found to  be  disturbed  by  overflowing  pigeonholes 
of  unanswered  letters.  Our  winter  was  a  medley  of 
rain,  snow,  hail,  landslides,  and  floods  —  amazing 
even  to  the  oldest  inhabitant,  who  promptly  re- 
marked that  he  had  "  seen  nothing  like  it  for  twenty- 
five  years."  We  had  fifty-two  successive  days  and 
nights  of  rain,  with  frequent  dashes  of  snow  and 
hail  between  showers;  yet  we  remained  reasonably 
calm,  though  the  Noahs,  I  believe,  took  to  the  ark 
after  a  little  dash  of  forty  days. 

The  winter  rains  were  expected,  and  were  even 
enjoyed;  it  was  their  continuance  so  far  into  the 
spring  that  palled  on  us.  The  last  four  weeks  it 

[177] 


Jfrom  an  Oregon 

rained  steadily  without  variation.  Day  after  day 
we  saw  the  same  drab  sky,  the  same  gray  rain  dole- 
fully slanting  across  the  glen,  veiling  the  hills  and 
shutting  out  the  world  —  a  monotony  that  not  only 
depressed  but  stupefied. 

All  this  surplus  rain  water,  together  with  that 
caused  by  the  melting  of  the  snow  in  the  mountains, 
produced  fearful  high  waters  and  floods.  And 
really  I  was  half  glad  of  it  —  glad  of  anything 
coming  to  break  the  dull  uniformity  of  our  lives. 
I  was  ready  just  then  to  reach  out  a  welcoming 
hand  to  floods,  earthquakes,  cyclones,  or  any  other 
excitement  that  might  happen  along. 

Deer  Leap,  our  dashing  mountain  stream,  though 
drinking  heavily  for  some  weeks,  and  rather  omi- 
nously full,  had  up  to  this  time  kept  his  bed,  show- 
ing no  particularly  riotous  spirit.  But  with  the  first 
hint  of  the  coming  of  the  flood  he  began  tossing  and 
tumbling  restlessly,  and  presently  he  broke  loose 
from  his  restraining  banks  and  went  plunging 
through  the  alders  and  maples,  whisking,  whirling, 
and  foaming,  dealing  destruction  right  and  left,  de- 
molishing cattle  sheds,  poultry  houses,  and  pasture 
fence.  He  then  made  a  dash  for  the  bridges,  de- 
stroying one  and  trying  hard  for  the  other,  blus- 
tering and  raging  about  it  for  a  day  and  night, 
hurling  great  logs  against  it,  savagely  bumping  the 
floor,  lifting  a  part  of  the  planks,  pulling  and  push- 
ing and  tugging  fiercely  at  it ;  but  though  it  trembled 


JFtom  3n  2Dre0on  Kane!) 

and  swayed,  it  stood  its  ground  bravely,  aided  by 
strong  chains  lashing  it  to  the  trees. 

Our  meadow  looked  like  a  dreary  waste.  The 
trees  and  bushes  seemed  growing  out  of  a  lake.  We 
one  day  saw  fourteen  Angora  goats  carried  through 
this  shallow  sea.  Fortunately  they  were  thrown 
upon  a  little  knoll  in  a  thicket  of  briars,  where  sharp 
thorns  caught  their  fleecy  coats  and  held  them  fast 
until  their  owner  came  to  the  rescue.  In  being 
released  from  their  thorny  entanglement  the  poor 
things  were  half  shorn.  Little  white  flags  of  mohair 
still  flutter  from  those  bushes  in  commemoration 
of  the  event. 

All  the  known  springs  were  gushing  noisily,  and 
many  new  ones  were  developing  in  unheard-of 
places.  One  day  little  streams  of  water  came  cours- 
ing down  the  hillside  just  back  of  the  house,  gradu- 
ally broadening,  then  soon  united,  forming  a  swiftly 
flowing  shallow  river  of  bright  orange  color  —  the 
coloring  material  furnished,  we  supposed,  by  the  red 
soil  of  Mount  Nebo  above.  It  was  the  strangest 
sight  imaginable,  reminding  us  of  the  flood  at  Glen 
Quharity  that  Barrie  tells  of  in  the  story  of  "The 
Little  Minister."  Indeed,  many  of  the  scenes  here 
were  as  wild  as  those  the  "Dominie"  looked  out 
upon  from  the  schoolhouse  in  the  Glen. 

If  Mrs.  Noah  had  great  yellow  waves  of  thick 
muddy  water  dashing  against  her  habitation,  it's  no 
wonder  she  welcomed  the  coming  of  the  ark.  I  told 

[179] 


JFrom  an  flDregon  Bane!) 

Tom  he  really  must  do  something,  or  we  should  be 
forced  to  take  to  the  hills,  as  I  believed  the  house 
would  be  swept  into  Deer  Leap  and  carried  by  the 
high  tide  down  to  the  Willamette  and  from  there 
out  to  sea.  Though  he  said,  "  I  should  think  you'd 
like  that,  you've  always  wanted  a  houseboat,"  he  at 
once  began  digging  canals.  When  he  had  finished, 
he  called  me  out  to  see  how  madly  the  water  was 
dashing  through  them. 

At  first  I  could  see  nothing  but  Tom  himself  — 
plastered  with  yellow  mud  from  head  to  foot,  fea- 
tures hidden  and  hair  decorated  with  it. 

A  bright  thought  struck  me.  "Tom,  get  the 
wooden  trough  out  of  the  milkhouse,  and  that  pole 
by  the  alder,  and  see  if  you  can't  shove  yourself 
around  a  little.  I  might  fancy  you  a  tall  and 
shadowy  gondolier,  and  half  believe  ourselves  in 
Venice — especially  if  you  would  first  wash  your 
face." 

"  Yes,  and  we'll  be  in  Venice  indeed  when  I  make 
such  an  idiot  of  myself  as  that ! " 

I've  always  been  sorry  that  he  declined  to  em- 
bark. The  current  of  the  lagoon  was  surprisingly 
swift,  and  would  have  carried  his  craft  into  the 
spring  run,  which  a  little  lower  down  in  the  yard 
has  a  fall  of  five  or  six  feet.  To  see  Mr.  Thomas 
Graham  shooting  the  rapids  in  the  milk  trough 
would  have  made  glad  my  day,  dark  as  the  skies 
were  then. 

Ii8o] 


JFrom  3n  SDregon  Kancft 

During  this  flood  time  we  often  heard  the  dull 
roar  of  the  ocean;  the  wind  blew  straight  from  it 
with  the  force  almost  of  a  hurricane.  The  house 
shook  in  the  fierce  gusts;  great  branches  of  the 
alders  snapped  off  and  came  tumbling  down  in  the 
yard.  Occasionally  a  big  tree,  uprooted  by  wind 
and  water,  fell  with  a  tremendous  crash. 

It  was  fine  to  hear  the  rush  of  wind  through  the 
forest,  to  see  the  tall  firs  tossing  their  plumy  heads, 
wrestling  so  fiercely  with  one  another  that  many 
came  out  of  the  fray  with  broken  limbs,  and  not  a 
few  headless.  Near  the  house  one  broke  partly  off, 
lodging  against  its  neighbor.  Swaying  back  and 
forth  in  the  gale,  they  made  a  most  hideous,  rasp- 
ing, screeching  sound,  like  the  screaming  of  caged 
beasts  in  a  menagerie.  Tom  said  those  trees  would 
be  a  treasure  for  a  "shivaree"  party  —  that  a 
resined  scantling  drawn  across  a  pine  box  was  but 
an  seolian  harp  in  comparison. 

In  daylight,  when  one  could  see  what  was  going 
on,  it  wasn't  so  bad;  but  at  night  it  was  something 
fearful.  There  was  no  light  of  moon  or  stars;  only 
darkness  and  the  rush  and  roar  of  wind  and  water, 
the  lashing  and  swish-swashing  of  firs,  with  an  ac- 
companiment of  shrieks  from  the  crippled  one  and 
his  fellow  sufferer. 

Though  rather  frightened  at  times,  I  liked  the 
excitement  and  exhilaration  of  all  this,  and  I  think 
Tom  and  Bert  did  —  if  they  would  admit  it.  The 

[181] 


jfrom  3n  2Dre0on 

effort  to  save  buildings,  fences,  bridges,  etc.,  stirred 
their  blood,  and  gave  them  something  new  to  think 
and  talk  about. 

The  uneventful  days  preceding  this  stormy  period 
were  far  worse  to  bear.  During  ten  weeks  I  never 
exchanged  a  word  with  a  neighbor  woman,  nor  even 
saw  one  pass ;  and  I  saw  only  three  men,  all  horse- 
men. The  first  —  a  smooth,  round-faced,  large  man, 
wearing  a  plaid  shawl  —  was  so  motherly  looking 
that  we  set  him  down  as  a  country  doctor.  The 
second  rider,  gaunt  and  thin,  with  a  stuffed  gunny- 
sack  for  a  saddle,  had  a  bag  of  flour  lying  across 
his  steed ;  we  concluded  hunger  had  drawn  him  from 
his  lair.  The  last  to  pass  was  a  stoop-shouldered, 
hollow-chested  stripling,  singing  "Hold  the  Fort, 
for  I  Am  Coming." 

These  are  the  only  human  beings,  outside  our  own 
families,  that  I  saw  from  the  last  of  January  until 
near  the  middle  of  April.  Tom  tells  a  rather  myth- 
ical story  of  seeing  emerge  from  the  melancholy 
yews  down  in  the  canyon  a  shadowy  hound,  followed 
by  a  brown-corduroyed  man,  who  called  up  to  him, 
"  I  reckon  you  hain't  seen  no  stray  Angorys  up  this 
way  lately?"  As  this  story  lacks  verification,  we 
think  Thomas,  by  overlong  living  in  the  woods,  is 
beginning  to  "  see  things." 

In  those  gloomy  days  darkness  descended  upon 
us  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  making  woefully 
long  evenings.  At  first  we  were  glad,  as  it  gave  us 


jFcom  3n  Oregon  Kattcfc 

a  chance  to  read  our  Christmas  books  and  the  piles 
of  magazines  and  papers  saved  up  from  the  busy 
season.  After  that  for  a  while  we  enjoyed  re-read- 
ing our  favorites  among  the  old  books.  Then  came 
a  time  when  the  "  restless  pulse  "  of  ennui  could  not 
be  quieted  even  by  good  literature. 

I'll  just  lift  the  curtain  and  give  you  a  glimpse  of 
one  of  our  winter  evenings,  which  will  be  a  fair 
sample  of  the  other  hundred  or  two.  Open  wide 
your  eyes  and  look  across  the  rainy  night  away  up 
into  the  dark  fir  forests  of  Oregon.  Do  you  see  a 
faint  light  shining  and  wavering  among  the  wet 
leaves  ?  Well,  that  glimmer  is  from  a  student  lamp 
in  front  of  the  big  stone  fireplace  of  the  Ranch  of 
the  Pointed  Firs.  At  the  left  of  it,  in  an  old  Morris 
chair,  sits  Tom,  silently  and  diligently  reading.  A 
low  willow  rocker  on  the  right  is  occupied  by  Kath- 
arine, also  silently  and  diligently  reading.  Between 
the  two,  upon  a  black  fur  rug,  still  as  a  shadow,  lies 
Sheila,  dreaming  of  summertime  and  the  whirr  of 
pheasant  wings. 

Hours  pass.  The  Morris-chair  reader  lays  his 
book  aside,  draws  nearer  the  fire,  and,  replenishing 
it,  remarks  that  it  must  be  near  midnight.  Even 
as  he  speaks,  the  clock  chimes  eight.  Katharine 
closes  her  book,  seeks  the  opposite  chimney  corner, 
and  there  they  sit,  like  a  couple  of  heathen  gods 
carved  in  wood,  solemnly  staring  into  the  fire,  which, 
having  just  swallowed  a  fresh  dose  of  turpentine 


JFtom  an  Oregon  JRancft 

and  pitch,  snaps  and  crackles  so  alarmingly  that 
Sheila,  suspecting  a  gun,  retires  to  a  distant  corner. 

Presently  the  "  brazen  image  "  on  the  left  remarks 
abruptly,  "  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  bear ;  I  wish  we  had 
some  raw  oysters ! " 

"You  might  as  well  wish  for  the  apples  of  Hes- 
perides." 

"Just  now  I  prefer  the  common  ones  of  Oregon. 
Where  are  they?  I'll  get  some." 

"  All  gone  at  the  house." 

"  Great  Scott !  Then  there  isn't  one  on  the  place, 
and  no  more  to  come  until  next  July." 

"And  we're  twenty  miles  from  oranges  and  ba- 
nanas, Tom,  and  the  roads  hub-deep  with  good  red 
Oregon  mud." 

"  I'll  buy  an  airship  before  I'm  a  year  older ! " 

Contemplation  of  the  fire  is  silently  resumed;  no 
sound,  save  a  little  secret  whispering  among  the 
flames,  the  muffled  throbbing  of  rain  on  the  mossy 
roof,  and  the  steady  drip  from  the  overflowing  eaves. 

"Just  listen,  Tom!  Drip,  drip,  drip,  everlast- 
ingly !  No  wonder  the  gloom  of  this  thing  has  crept 
into  our  hearts  and  looks  out  of  our  eyes.  It's  as 
bad  as  Chesnywold,  in  Lincolnshire." 

"Not  quite  —  we  haven't  any  Ghosts'  Walk!" 

"  No ;  but  I  wish  to  goodness  we  had,  and  that  a 
whole  procession  of  phantoms  paraded  there  nightly, 
spouting  fire  and  brimstone,  winding  up  with  the 
carmagnole  in  blue  flames." 


jFrom  3n  flPregon 

"  Whew !   What's  the  carmagnole  ?  " 
"  I    don't    exactly    know  —  something    fiendish, 
though ;  and  I'd  actually  be  glad  to  look  out  at  mid- 
night and  see  a  couple  of  dozen  airy  apparitions,  lit 
with  phosphorus,  cutting  the  pigeon  wing  under 
these  dripping  black  firs.    We  would  get  a  thrill  or 
two  at  least,  and  that  would  be  something  just  now." 
"  Katharine,  are  you  getting  tired  of  Oregon?" 
"Tired  of  Oregon!     You  know  I  love  its  very 
name.     I'm  only  tired  of  sullen  skies,  rain,  mud, 
myself,  and  —  you." 

;'  Thanks.  Your  frankness  emboldens  me  to  con- 
fess that  there  have  been  dark  moments  of  late  when 
your  society  seemed  to  me  to  lack  something  of  the 
charm  of  the  Sorceress  of  the  Nile." 

"Very  likely.  I  never  set  myself  up  for  a  sor- 
ceress. I  know  I  am  stupid ;  so  are  you.  We  need 
friends,  mirth,  music,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing;  and 
it  wouldn't  greatly  damage  our  immortal  souls  even 
to  see  a  good  play.  Oh,  Tom !  just  imagine  that  we 
are  sitting  this  very  minute  in  a  brilliantly  lighted 
theater,  the  perfume  of  flowers  in  the  air,  well- 
dressed  people  all  about  us,  wealth  and  beauty  in  the 
boxes,  waves  of  melody  floating  up  from  the  orches- 
tra, one  final  flourish  and  crash,  and  lo !  the  curtain 


rises." 


Adding  more  fuel  to  the  fire  and  carefully  brush- 
ing the  hearth,  Tom  remarked,  "What  do  you  say 
to  cards  ?  We  have  all  the  Sarah  Battle  essentials." 


JFrom 

" Not  all,  Tom.  The  ' rigor  of  the  game'  would 
be  lacking ;  for  you  well  know  that  I  always  did,  do 
now,  and  ever  shall  hate  cards." 

"Well,  then,  as  gardening  time  is  not  far  off, 
suppose  we  look  over  a  seed  catalogue  and  select 
such  seeds  as  we  shall  need." 

"  Good  heavens !  A  seed  catalogue !  I  want  ex- 
citement, but  I  couldn't  stand  anything  quite  so 
hilarious  as  that." 

"  I'm  sure  you  have  often  said  there  was  nothing 
more  fascinating." 

"  Possibly,  when  the  sun  was  shining  and  birds 
singing ;  but  to  sit  in  this  dreariness  and  watch  you 
slowly  turn  the  pages  and  hear  you  ask,  '  Now  about 
cucumbers :  shall  we  get  the  white  spine  or  the  long 
greens?  Onions:  the  yellow  Danver  is  a  good 
onion,  don't  you  think  ?  Radishes :  English  Break- 
fast. Didn't  we  have  some  seed  left  over?  Beans: 
I'll  order  the  bunch  kind  —  the  Golden  Wax,  I 
guess.'  Honestly,  Tom,  I  couldn't  listen  tonight  to 
that  lingo,  clear  through  alphabetically  from  aspara- 
gus to  watermelons,  and  live." 

"Well,  that  was  my  trump  card.  I've  nothing 
more  to  offer."  Leaning  back  he  began  singing — 

"  I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snaw  when  it's  thaw,  Jean." 

After  an  interval  the  doleful  one  remarks :  "  I've 
[186] 


jftom  an  Oregon  Kancft 

thought  of  something,  Tom,  that  would  be  absorbing 
work,  for  — 

'  There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean/ 

Let's  write  a  ghost  story ! " 

"All  right.  I've  long  felt  in  my  bones  that  I 
could  write  a  rattling  good  ghost  story.  We'll  col- 
laborate." 

"Oh!    I  think  I  understand." 

The  inspired  ones  seize  pencil  and  paper,  and  at 
once  become  absorbed  in  plots  and  plans.  Curtain 
falls  at  8  -.30  P.  M. 

We  really  did  try  the  ghost  story.  It  was  about 
the  only  fun  we  had  last  winter.  We  wrote  alter- 
nate chapters,  Tom  illustrating  the  whole  with  pencil 
sketches.  It  is  a  work  of  almost  supernatural  power, 
and  destined  to  live,  we  think,  and  rank  with  the 
really  great  literature  of  the  world.  It  will  appear 
about  the  holidays  —  some  other  year. 


FTER  the  slackening  of  the  winter  rains, 
which  I  tried  to  picture  to  you  in  my 
last  letter,  there  came  an  aftermath 
of  light  showers  and  lovely  mists, 
soft,  filmy,  floating-about-the-mountain 
mists.  Nothing  else  in  all  these  beautiful  Oregon 
hills  seems  quite  so  near  and  dear  to  me  as  these 
mists,  so  sympathetic,  so  companionable,  and  yet  so 
indescribable;  a  witchery  of  nature,  too  changeful 
and  elusive  to  be  caught  by  words.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  I  love  them,  nor  how  strangely  they 
appeal  to  my  better  self.  Often,  when  annoyed  by 
household  cares,  and  the  many  — 

"  Little  sharp  vexations, 
The  briers  that  catch  and  fret," 

I  look  out  of  my  kitchen  window  and  see  these  ten- 
der gray  mists  quietly  rising  from  the  encircling 

[188] 


Jftom  3n  SDtegon  Rancft 

hills,  like  clouds  of  incense  to  the  Great  Spirit. 
Tears  "rise  in  my  heart  and  gather  to  my  eyes," 
my  rebellious  mood  is  softened,  my  worries  slip 
away,  peace  steals  into  my  heart,  and  I  am  com- 
forted and  helped  as  by  the  silent  sympathetic  pres- 
sure of  the  hand  of  a  friend.  I  cannot  analyze  the 
mysterious  charm  of  these  dreamy,  brooding 
shadows,  nor  define  what  it  is  they  say  to  me,  nor 
make  clear  even  to  myself  the  secret  of  their  silent 
ministry.  I  only  know  they  soothe  and  tranquillize 
and  restore.  Perhaps  the  Father,  mindful  of  the 
solitariness  of  his  mountain  children,  sends  these 
soft  winds  of  peace  to  hover  over  them,  in  token 
of  His  unforgetting  love  and  care. 

If  through  an  unkind  fate  I  should  suffer  ban- 
ishment from  this  land  of  enchantment,  I  know  I 
should  be  homesick  day  and  night  for  the  "  Sisters 
of  the  gray  veil,"  as  Tom  calls  them.  He  often 
comes  in  saying,  "The  gray  veils  have  camped 
among  the  firs  today,"  or  "  The  Sisters  of  the  gray 
veil  are  climbing  the  hills  this  morning,"  and  some- 
how the  name  satisfies  my  sense  of  kinship  with 
them. 

About  this  time  I  enjoyed  some  delightful  walks 
v/ith  my  new  acquaintance,  the  young  lady  who  gave 
me  Sheila.  She  had  just  returned  from  a  distant 
ranch  where  she  had  gone  to  spend  the  holiday  sea- 
son, and  where  she  had  been  imprisoned  by  high 
waters  for  many  weeks.  We  call  this  young  lady 

[189] 


JFtom  3n  ffl)tegon 

"  Di  Vernon,"  because  of  her  adventurous  spirit  and 
love  of  out-door  life.  We  met  her  once  or  twice 
soon  after  our  arrival  here,  but  before  we  had  be- 
come fairly  acquainted  she  went  to  visit  friends  in 
Colorado,  where  she  remained  many  months,  and  we 
did  not  meet  again  until  about  a  year  ago.  If  she 
had  been  at  home  during  our  long  winter,  we  should 
have  been  less  lonely,  as  she,  in  short  skirts  and  rub- 
ber boots,  roams  these  hills  quite  regardless  of  the 
weather. 

Three  dogs  are  her  inseparable  companions  — 
Texas,  a  great  fierce  fellow,  with  a  deep  and  terrible 
voice;  Shady,  a  hound,  lean,  lank,  and  brown  —  as 
his  name  implies;  and  June,  a  Scotch  collie.  The 
latter  is  a  beauty,  yellow  and  white  in  color,  and 
clean,  fluffy,  and  f  ringy,  like  a  prize  chrysanthemum ; 
she  has  a  pretty  face,  too,  with  big,  luminous  brown 
eyes,  set  in  a  tiny  circle  of  black,  as  if  she  had  coquet- 
tishly  touched  them  up  with  India  ink.  I  really  be- 
lieve there  is  no  handsomer  dog  in  Oregon  —  with 
one  notable  exception. 

Miss  Vernon  rides  a  fleet  little  Indian  pony,  with- 
out a  saddle  —  just  a  surcingle,  with  stirrup  at- 
tached. She  uses  a  queer  sort  of  bridle,  with  reins 
of  braided  rawhide,  and  a  cruel-looking  curb  bit; 
and,  strangest  of  all,  she  rides  with  a  spur.  When 
I  first  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  shoe  embellished  with 
that  shining  metal  wheel,  I  grew  fairly  dizzy.  But, 
oh,  how  she  rides !  Flying  along  at  a  furious  pace, 

[190] 


Jfrom  3n  SDregon 

leaping  over  logs  and  even  fences,  how  she  manages 
to  stick  on  is  a  mystery  to  me. 

The  hill  women  all  ride,  and  ride  well,  using  only 
the  surcingle,  though  sometimes  it  is  buckled  around 
a  blanket  or  a  sheepskin.  The  only  sidesaddle  we 
have  seen  here  came  up  from  the  valley,  and  we  all 
looked  upon  it  with  contempt.  You  may  think  that 
as  they  ignore  the  saddle  they  have  adopted  the 
modern  method  of  riding  astride ;  but  they  haven't. 
Such  dashing  horsemanship  among  women  has 
greatly  astonished  us,  and  our  interest  in  it  never 
wanes.  When  I  hear  galloping  hoofs,  and  see 
through  the  trees  the  flash  of  a  sunbonnet  or 
streaming  veil,  I  stand  stock-still  in  admiration. 

But  I  am  straying  far  from  our  own  particular 
enchantress,  who  greatly  surprised  us  during  her 
first  call.  In  speaking  of  this  isolated  life,  I  had 
asked  what  her  amusements  were  here. 

"  Oh,  I  ride,  fish,  and  hunt,  and  I'm  fond  of  dogs 
and  horses,  and  as  we  have  a  lot  of  them  I  spend  a 
good  deal  of  my  time  with  them.  I  always  help 
break  the  bunchgrassers,  and  that's  exciting." 

Bunchgrassers !  I  had  never  before  heard  that 
word,  and  wondered  if  she  could  possibly  mean 
jack-rabbits.  I  have  never  seen  any,  but  have 
always  associated  them  with  bunchgrass.  But  why 
should  they  want  to  break  them?  I  kept  still  and 
waited  for  light. 

When  I  had  learned  that  she  was  talking  of 


jfrom  3n  SDregon  Kancft 

horses,  I  made  bold  to  ask,  "Why  bunchgrassers ? " 
and  was  told  they  were  horses  that  had  been  running 
wild  on  the  range. 

Tom,  who  had  been  an  interested  listener  to  all 
this,  asked  her  if  she  could  wield  the  lasso. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  replied;  "my  father  taught  me 
that  when  I  was  quite  a  young  girl,  though  I  don't 
pretend  to  be  an  expert." 

While  she  discussed  horsebreaking  methods  with 
Tom,  I  looked  at  her  in  amazement.  It  was  hard  to 
reconcile  such  deeds  with  the  doer.  She  was  "like 
the  hazel  twig,  straight  and  slender,  and  as  brown 
as  hazel  nuts,"  with  a  pleasant  voice,  a  charming 
smile,  a  frank,  cordial  manner,  entirely  free  from 
self -consciousness;  was  well  gowned  in  dark  blue 
cloth,  wore  a  Rough  Rider  hat  of  tan  color,  with 
gauntlets  to  match,  and  tucked  in  her  belt  was  a 
yellow  daffodil. 

As  she  discoursed  enthusiastically  of  ropes, 
thongs,  slipknots,  and  nooses,  I  remembered  that 
only  a  few  minutes  before  in  our  talk  she  had  quoted 
from  "The  Birds  of  Killingworth "  and  from  "The 
Bonnie  Brier  Bush  "  and  so  my  wonder  grew. 

When  she  left  us  we  sat  for  a  moment  looking, 
at  each  other  dumbly.  Then  Tom  remarked,  "  Exit 
Saint  Cecilia,  the  female  bronco  buster."  * 

"  Aren't  you  ashamed,  Tom,  to  speak  in  that  way 
of  one  of  my  visitors?" 

"Why,  no,  Katharine  —  I  meant  that  as  a  com- 

[192] 


Jfrom  3n  SDtegon 

pliment.  Though  she  talked  of  the  overturning  of 
wild  horses,  she  certainly  looked  the  gentlest  of 
saints.  She  is  a  new  type,  and  I  like  her  immensely. 
She's  a  thousand  times  more  interesting  than  such 
girls  as  we  have  known,  talking  eternally  of  recep- 
tions and  clubs,  of  whist  and  theater  parties,  of  pink 
teas  and  green  luncheons,  color  schemes  that  were 
poems,  and  gowns  that  were  dreams,  and  that  sort  of 
gush.  Now  this  girl  is  a  real  Di  Vernon,  a  novelty, 
and  a  most  refreshing  one." 

Tom  had  hit  upon  a  name  that  seemed  rightfully 
to  belong  to  her,  and  we  have  called  her  by  it  ever 
since.  We  have  learned  that  she  is  a  very  successful 
trout  fisher,  and  as  a  discoverer  of  bee  trees  has  no 
equal  in  the  hills.  She  has  no  fear  of  bees,  and 
always  helps  to  take  the  honey;  is  a  fine  marksman 
—  has  a  rifle  and  a  shotgun  of  her  own,  and  can  bag 
as  many  pheasants  and  quail  as  her  brother  or  uncle 
when  out  with  them  on  a  hunting  trip.  She  often 
goes  with  them  coon-hunting  at  night,  when  it  is  so 
dark  they  have  to  carry  lanterns.  Once  when  she 
was  out  hunting  alone  in  our  woods,  the  dogs  got  on 
the  track  of  a  wildcat,  chased  it  half  the  morning, 
and  finally  treed  it.  She  followed  them,  found  it 
high  among  the  branches,  fired,  and  brought  it  down. 

"Of  course,  Di,  you  kept  its  skin  for  a  rug?" 

"No;  sold  it." 

"You  foolish  girl!     Why  did  you?" 

"  Oh,  to  get  some  more  money  to  buy  some  more 

[193] 


Jfrom  3n  2Dre0on  Eancft 

ammunition  to  kill  some  more  wildcats!"  she  an- 
swered laughingly. 

I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  that  a  few  years  ago 
she  killed  a  deer  —  her  first,  and,  I  am  glad  to  say,- 
her  last  In  telling  me  of  it  she  said,  "  Never  again 
while  I  live  will  I  point  a  gun  toward  a  deer;  for 
that  poor  thing,  as  it  lay  dying,  turned  its  beautiful 
head  in  my  direction,  and  two  big  reproachful  eyes 
looked  me  squarely  in  my  face,  and  I  felt  myself  the 
cruel  murderess  that  I  was.  I  had  no  pride  in  that 
shot.  I  went  home  ashamed  and  in  tears,  haunted 
by  those  dying  eyes.  But  I've  saved  the  life  of  many 
a  one  since  in  atonement  for  that  crime." 

"How,  Di?" 

"Very  easily  —  just  by  misdirecting  their  pur- 
suers. You  know  there  is  a  regular  deer  run  on 
our  place,  and  many  a  time  when  I  have  been  stroll- 
ing through  the  fields  or  along  the  banks  of  the 
stream  I've  seen  one  of  those  poor  frightened  crea- 
tures come  flying  out  of  the  woods  with  death  at  its 
heels,  clear  the  brook  at  a  bound,  and,  though  ready 
to  drop  from  exhaustion,  not  daring  to  pause  even  a 
second  for  a  drop  of  pure  water  to  cool  its  throat. 
The  hunters  are  seldom  far  behind,  and  when  they 
come  crashing  through  the  underbrush  and  see  me, 
they  naturally  ask  whether  I  have  seen  the  deer  and 
which  way  it  ran.  That's  my  opportunity,  and  I  rise 
to  meet  it. 

"'The  deer?    Yes,  I  saw  it  about  three  minutes 

[194] 


jFtom 

ago.  It  jumped  this  stream  where  that  alder  stands 
and  ran  straight  up  the  canyon/  Or,  '  It  ran  across 
the  meadow,  leaped  the  fence,  and  entered  the  oppo- 
site woods  just  between  those  two  tall  dead  firs/ 

1 '  Oh,  thank  you,  Miss !  thank  you ! '  they  gasp 
excitedly,  as  they  dash  off  —  in  the  wrong  direction. 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  suffer  remorse  for  the  lie  I  have 
told,  but  I  don't;  I  know  that  I  have  saved  the  life 
of  a  hunted  wild  thing,  and  I  feel  glad  to  my  finger 
tips." 

Our  young  lady  knows  these  hills  and  woods  and 
streams  like  a  book.  She  knows  the  haunts  of  the 
wild  flowers,  but  not  always  their  names  —  to  my 
regret,  for,  not  learning  them  of  her,  I  despair  of 
learning  them  at  all.  She  it  was  who  told  us  of  the 
rhododendrons  and  where  they  grew;  it  was  four 
miles  farther  back  in  the  mountains ;  a  part  of  the 
way  there  was  no  road,  only  a  tangled  trail,  the  last 
half-mile  straight  up.  Though  eager  to  go  at  once 
to  that  field  Elysian,  my  ardor  cooled  somewhat  as 
I  thought  of  the  walk  of  eight  miles,  part  of  it  a 
straight  climb,  with  active  housework  before  and 
after  taking.  I  decided  the  rhododendrons  of  the 
mountains  must  come  to  Mahomet.  And  come  they 
did;  for  Bert,  after  hearing  of  them,  never  really 
enjoyed  a  good  night's  rest  until  he  had  scaled  the 
heights  crowned  by  those  blushing  rose  trees.  He 
returned  from  his  trip  late  in  the  evening,  footsore 
and  weary,  but  glowing  with  enthusiasm,  declaring 

[195] 


Jfrom  3n  Dregon 

he  had  seen  the  most  wonderful  sight  in  all  the 
world.  "Fully  a  half-acre  of  those  magnificent 
blooms!  Just  think  of  it!  —  a  pink-canopied  island 
in  a  sea  of  green!" 

He  had  carried  a  great  armload  of  their  flowery 
branches  all  that  distance,  and  for  the  next  ten  days 
"rose-pink  rhododendron  bells,  with  narrow  leaves 
of  satin's  sheen,"  glorified  and  illumined  this  old 
box-house. 

We  were  surprised  and  pleased  to  find  our  new 
friend  a  most  intelligent  and  appreciative  reader  of 
good  literature.  The  books  in  her  home,  though 
few,  are  of  the  best,  and  have  been  so  thoroughly 
and  thoughtfully  read  that  she  seems  to  know  them 
by  heart.  She  is  a  good  comrade,  and  we  enjoyed 
many  delightful  walks  during  the  time  of  mists  of 
which  I  have  written.  As  there  were  still  frequent 
showers,  and  the  ground  was  well  soaked  by  the 
winter  rains,  I  followed  her  example,  donning  a  pair 
of  rubber  boots  which  Tom  had  bought  for  me  to 
wear  during  "snake  week." 

A  rainy-day  walk  in  town  is  an  uncomfortable 
experience  compared  with  our  free-and-easy  hill 
excursions.  We  wear  old  soft  felt  hats,  and  our 
most  disreputable  jackets,  and  gowns  with  skirts 
reaching  but  little  below  our  boot  tops.  Unham- 
pered by  gloves  and  umbrellas,  we  swing  along  with 
the  mist  in  our  faces,  as  happy  as  gypsies.  Four 
barking  dogs  go  frisking  ahead,  so  insanely  gleeful 


Jftom  an  2Dre0on 

they  must  needs  run  back  very  often  to  leap  on  us 
with  muddy  feet,  just  to  ask  if  this  isn't  a  lark  and 
if  we  aren't  glad  they  let  us  come. 

As  we  skirt  the  red-furrowed  fields,  hugging  the 
old  rail  fence  for  the  sake  of  a  grassy  path,  fright- 
ened quails  go  scurrying  off  through  the  tall  weeds 
and  tangled  briers,  while  from  near-by  thickets,  with 
a  rush  of  wings  that  is  almost  a  roar,  startled  China 
pheasants  fly  up  and  over,  croaking  as  hoarsely  as 
though  an  epidemic  of  sore  throat  were  raging 
among  them. 

Our  footpath  leads  straight  to  the  woods,  the 
entrance  barred  only  by  a  few  mossy  poles.  We 
slide  back  the  two  middle  ones,  and  gracefully 
tumble  through  the  opening.  Our  impatient  four- 
footed  friends,  who  long  before  had  leaped  that  bar- 
rier, plunging  into  the  forest's  fringing  under- 
growth, were  doubtless  already  engaged  in  a  still 
hunt,  as  no  sound  came  from  them.  As  we  struggle 
through  the  dripping  bushes,  rejoicing  in  both  their 
baptism  and  their  benediction,  and  enter  the  dusky 
atmosphere  of  the  real  woods,  where  the  stately 
trees  stand  in  crowded  columns,  and  catch  that  first 
cool  wave  of  scented  silence,  we  are  apt  to  talk  com- 
passionately of  city-dwellers,  all  heaped  and  huddled 
together,  with  nothing  but  a  little  carpentry  or  ma- 
sonry between  them.  I  think  of  all  such  pityingly, 
as  I  stand  in  the  solitude  of  the  pointed  firs,  crush- 
ing their  green  aromatic  needles  in  my  hands,  bury- 

[197] 


4Fcom  3n  Dregon  Rancft 

ing  my  face  in  them  to  catch  their  fullest  and  sweet- 
est perfume;  and  then  I  thank  the  kindly  star  that 
guided  us  across  plain  and  desert  and  mountain  into 
these  glorious  hills  of  Oregon. 


WANT  to  tell  you  something  more 
about  our  walks.  Tom  and  I  have  a 
couple  of  light,  tough  cedar  alpenstocks, 
which  we  regard  as  very  helpful  in  hill 
climbing;  and  I  like  them  for  another 
reason.  In  the  end  of  each  is  a  very 
sharp  spike,  which  I  have  secretly  thought  would  be 
of  service  if  I  should  chance  to  meet  one  of  the  furry 
folk  of  the  forest  and  find  it  necessary  to  engage 
him  in  single-handed  combat. 

When  Di  Vernon  joined  me  on  these  excursions, 
it  seemed  but  courteous  to  offer  her  one  of  them. 
She  carried  it  twice;  on  its  third  presentation  she 
remarked,  "  If  it  won't  hurt  your  feelings,  I'd  rather 
not  take  that  pole."  Pole,  indeed !  my  nice,  smooth, 
sand-papered,  cedar  alpenstock!  Rather  chagrined, 
Tasked,  "Why?  Don't  you  like  it?"  "No;  I  don't 
care  much  for  it.  You  see,  I'm  accustomed  to  the 

[199] 


Jfrom  an  2Dregon  Batuf) 

hills,  have  climbed  them  from  childhood,  and  I 
really  have  no  use  for  it."  I  had  observed  that  she 
carried  it  like  a  music  roll  —  under  her  arm. 

"  I'll  venture  to  say/'  she  added,  "  that  you  never 
have  seen  a  native  of  the  hills  walking  with  one  of 
these  poles ;  only  newcomers  carry  them/' 

Though  humbled  by  this  "  plain  talk  to  plain  peo- 
ple," I  had  my  own  reasons  for  clinging  to  my 
"pole,"  and  so  I  clung.  I  find,  however,  that  I 
carry  it  less  like  a  flagstaff,  and  note  a  growing 
tendency  to  trail  it. 

The  walks  here  are  all  so  interesting  that  we  often 
have  difficulty  in  deciding  which  to  take.  We  some- 
times leave  it  to  the  dogs.  If  they  scamper  away 
across  the  sodden,  spongy  meadow,  we  know  they 
are  bound  for  the  canyon,  and  we  cheerfully  follow 
them. 

Near  the  stream  we  enter  a  narrow,  winding  path, 
padded  with  brown  wet  leaves,  bordered  by  willow, 
maple,  ash,  and  alder  trees;  while  crowding  among 
these  grow  smaller  trees  —  wild  cherry,  Indian 
peach,  chittam  vine  bark,  and  hazel,  with  elder,  wild 
syringa,  currant  and  blackberry  bushes;  the  wild 
rose,  too,  with  an  infinite  variety  of  other  shrubs 
that  love  to  haunt  the  banks  of  Deer  Leap. 

This  difficult  path  is  made  even  more  difficult  in 
places  by  curving  boughs  of  vine  maple  and  the 
palm-like  branches  of  young  firs.  We  must  needs 
advance  crouchingly  here,  hoisting  the  green,  sag- 

[200] 


JFrom  an  2Dre0on 

ging  roof  above  our  heads,  learning  through  its 
showery  protests  that  sagging  is  not  its  only  defect. 

Soon  after  escaping  from  this  troublesome  tangle, 
we  enter  the  dusky  atmosphere  of  the  big  trees.  This 
canyon,  Nell,  is  a  wild  and  eerie  region,  a  veritable 
"ghoul-haunted  woodland  of  wier,"  just  the  place 
for  hobgoblins  and  spooks.  I  avoid  hugging  the 
trees  lest  a  withered  arm  with  bony  hand  should 
reach  round  and  clutch  me. 

So  far  we  have  seen  nothing  more  awesome  than 
solemn  brown  owls  perched  high  among  the  firs, 
silent  and  meditative  as  cowled  monks.  Occasion- 
ally at  our  approach  one  slips  noiselessly  away,, 
though  oftener  he  sits  motionless,  staring  down  with 
tragic  eyes. 

Here,  there,  and  everywhere  among  these  tower- 
ing trees  lie  fallen  ones.  Some  have  tumbled  head 
first  into  the  canyon,  their  mighty  roots,  with  tons 
of  earth,  reared  high  in  air  —  a  hanging  garden 
where  green  mosses  grow,  with  low  bushes,  trailing 
vines,  and  even  fine  young  firs,  promising  scions  of 
a  lordly  race.  Across  these,  other  unfortunates  have 
fallen  rampant,  while  still  others  are  stretched  prone 
upon  the  ground,  half  buried  in  the  thick  woodland 
debris. 

Here,  too,  are  trees  left  headless  and  otherwise 
disfigured  by  fierce  winds;  and  many  fire  sufferers 
also.  Their  jagged  trunks,  painted  in  motley  colors, 
are  left  in  shapes  both  fantastic  and  wonderful  — 

[20*] 


JFtom  3n  SDregon 

strange  resemblances  to  man  and  beast,  suggestive 
of  the  skill  of  some  wandering  wood  carver. 

The  dullest  fancy  must  see  in  this  burnt-wood 
exhibit  the  sculptured  majesty  of  King  Lear  and 
the  picturesquely  posed  Huguenot  lovers;  also  our 
soldiers'  monuments,  where,  poised  upon  a  broken 
column,  stands  a  fine  military  figure  in  full  uniform, 
even  to  hat,  epaulettes,  and  sword.  Believing  him 
to  be  a  cavalry  officer,  we  have  named  him  General 
Forrest. 

And,  Nell,  through  a  vista  of  trees  may  be  seen 
emerging  from  the  opposite  wood  a  lady  of  most 
aristocratic  bearing,  wearing  a  picture  hat  with 
sweeping  plumes  of  black,  and  a  long  black  cloak 
bordered  with  silvery  gray  fur.  As  she  stands  in  a 
twilighty  place,  she  is  known  as  Our  Lady  of  the 
Gloaming. 

I  shall  not  expect  you  to  believe  the  half  of  this, 
unless  you  yourself  have  somewhere  seen  the  strange 
carvings  and  colorings  of  the  fire  artist. 

This  art  gallery  of  Nature's  is  half  screened  from 
our  path  by  naked  branches  of  young  oaks,  through 
which  a  rain  of  gray  moss  is  falling,  giving  an  agree- 
able touch  of  desolation  to  our  surroundings.  For 
your  sake,  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  forest  statuary 
seen  through  so  ghostly  a  drop  curtain  may,  from 
its  vagueness,  possibly  receive  an  extra  dash  of 
glamour. 

The  farther  up  the  canyon  we  go  the  denser  and 

[202] 


Jftom  an  flDregon  Batufc 

darker  grow  the  woods.  In  that  time  of  rain  and 
mist  it  was  often  almost  like  night  there,  and  still  as 
death,  unless  the  dogs  got  on  track  of  some  wild 
thing  and  set  the  echoes  flying.  In  that  case  the 
yelping  and  yowling  of  Shady,  the  hound,  must 
have  made  even  the  wood  nymphs  strike  for  tall 
timber. 

Sometimes  through  a  small  clearing  we  catch  a 
glimpse  of  "high  Cromla's  head  piercing  dark 
clouds,  with  squally  winds  in  their  skirts,"  and  see 
gray  mists  rolling  stormily  through  the  hills.  That 
picture,  with  the  roar  of  the  mountain  stream,  is  like 
a  page  from  Ossian.  The  pool  of  memory  is  stirred. 
Half  unconsciously  we  listen  for  the  trembling  harp 
strings  and  tuneful  voices  of  "  aged  bards  with  gray 
hair  on  the  breeze,"  for  the  horn  of  the  hunter,  and 
the  clash  of  steely  mail. 

If  from  out  the  tall  pointed  firs  should  come 
"slowly  stalking  dark-browed  warriors  with  bossy 
shields  and  helmeted  heads,  with  red  eyes  rolling 
silently,"  I'd  blanch  not,  only  stand  with  spiked  pole 
uplifted  and  await  the  onslaught.  As  for  those 
very  thin,  dim  ghosts  of  Ardven,  with  robes  of 
flying  mist,  I'd  fear  them  as  little  "as  the  rising 
breeze  that  whirls  the  gray  beard  of  the  thistle." 

Having  once  surrendered  to  the  mood  inspired 
by  the  wild  scenery  of  my  beloved  Oregon  hills,  I 
should  feel  little  surprise,  if,  at  the  next  turn  of  our 
winding  trail,  we  came  face  to  face  with  "the  fair 

[203] 


Jftom  an  2Dregon  Kane!) 

maids  of  Woody  Worven,  with  hair  like  the  mist 
on  Cromla,  when  it  curls  in  the  breeze  and  shines 
in  the  sun."  And  even  less  should  I  be  surprised, 
if  through  the  tall  fern  thickets  surrounding  us 
should  appear  "  the  branching  heads  of  dark  brown 
hinds,  flying  from  stern  hunters  with  bows  of 
bended  yew  and  the  panting  gray  dogs  —  long- 
bounded  sons  of  the  chase." 

Di,  as  a  devotee  of  Scott,  thinks  the  stage  setting 
calls  for  kilted  Highlanders,  with  plumed  bonnets 
and  tasseled  horns,  for  red-faced  monks  and  jolly 
friars,  for  winding  bugles,  baying  hounds,  scream- 
ing bagpipes,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Farther  up  the  canyon  at  the  right  of  our  path  is 
a  deep  cleft  in  the  hills,  and  there  in  a  most  romantic 
spot  a  spring  of  pure,  sparkling  water  gushes  from 
encircling  mossy  rocks  half  hidden  by  ferns  and 
buckthorn. 

We  always  make  a  detour  through  this  pic- 
turesque glen  to  drink  of  this  water  from  cups  fash- 
ioned of  leaves.  We  could,  of  course,  bring  with 
us  a  more  satisfactory  drinking  cup,  but  that  would 
savor  too  much  of  civilization  —  a  thing  we  cannot 
brook. 

Oh,  Nell,  if  only  you  could  see  this  crystal  spring 
and  its  wild  environment!  I'm  sure  it  would  sug- 
gest to  you,  as  to  us,  the  "  fairy  well  haunted  by 
the  White  Lady."  One  has  but  to  imagine  that 
overshadowing  buckthorn  to  be  holly  —  which  it 

[204] 


Jfrom  3n  2Dre0on 

so  closely  resembles  —  and  the  illusion  is  complete. 

Standing  there  one  day,  I  said  to  Di,  "  I  have  a 
mind  to  call  up  an  apparition,  if  you  think  you  can 
look  on  it  and  live." 

Stepping  forward,  bowing  solemnly  to  holly  and 
spring,  I  repeated  the  well-known  incantation  — 

"  Thrice  to  the  holly  brake, 
Thrice  to  the  well, 
I  bid  thee  awake, 
White  Maid  of  Avenel!" 

But  to  my  chagrin  that  golden-girdled  spirit  failed 
to  appear. 

'''  The  Lady  seems  not  to  be  at  home,  Di." 

"  No  wonder.  You  forgot  a  very  important  part 
of  the  spell.  Now  watch  me."  Thereupon  that 
intrepid  damsel  stalked  through  the  oozy  moss  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  fountain,  where,  with  clasped 
hands  and  "  red  eyes  rolling  "  wildly  about  the  glen, 
she  muttered,  "It  is  the  place,  the  season,  and  the 
hour!" 

Then,  gravely  removing  the  rubber  boot  from  her 
right  foot,  balancing  herself  on  the  left,  she  bowed 
as  impressively  as  could  be  expected  from  one  in 
that  stork-like  attitude,  thrice  to  the  holly  and  thrice 
to  the  well,  invoking  the  spirit  in  tones  more  awful 
than  those  of  the  ghost  in  "Hamlet,"  using  both 
verses  of  the  charm  to  make  all  sure.  Again  we 

[205] 


jfrom  an  €>re0on  Kancft 

waited.  Nothing  was  seen,  nothing  heard,  save  the 
hurrying  waters  of  Deer  Leap. 

"By  my  knightly  word,  this  is  strange!"  ex- 
claimed the  petitioner,  drawing  on  her  boot. 
"Though  I  bethink  me  now  I  should  have  brought 
hither  me  good  steel  blade,  or,  lacking  that,  should 
at  least  have  waved  a  bulrush  or  a  hazel  wand." 

"If  you'd  like  to  try  again,  Di,  and  think  a 
cedar  —  " 

"  Good  gracious !  Do  you  think  I'd  try  to  lure  a 
wood  maiden  from  her  haunts  with  a  spiked  pole? 
Anyway,  come  to  think  about  it,  I  don't  want  her 
to  appear,  for  now  we  have  the  freedom  of  her 
drawing  room,  and  can  stare  around  to  our  hearts' 
content." 

Mother  Nature  doesn't  mind  us;  she  knows  that 
we  are  just  a  couple  of  tired  mortals  from  out  the 
workaday  world,  who  have  strayed  into  her  leafy 
courts  for  an  hour's  forgetfulness  of  the  fever  called 
living;  knows,  too,  that  the  air  of  her  great  sani- 
tarium is  apt  slightly  to  affect  the  brain  of  her 
visitors;  has  learned  to  expect  nonsense,  and  to 
accept  it  with  placid  indifference. 

But  even  the  sanest  could  hardly  stand  in  this 
deep,  narrow  ravine  and  not  think  of  a  city  drawing 
room  in  gala  day  attire. 

Across  the  lower  end  hangs  a  leafy  portiere; 
through  its  seine-like  meshes  flash  the  silvery  waters 
of  Deer  Leap,  the  upper  one  banked  high  with  firs 

[206] 


Jfrom  an  Dregon 

and  hemlock;  a  charming  background  for  the  fern- 
fringed  fountain,  its  entire  floor  carpeted  with  thick 
green  moss,  which  extends  up  the  side  walls,  form- 
ing an  effective  dado;  logs  and  stumps  upholstered 
in  the  same  material  —  massive  divans  and  hassocks 
—  scattered  conveniently  about,  awaiting  the  arrival 
of  our  lady's  guests,  the  merry  foresters. 

When  I  speak  of  mossy  logs,  Nell,  you  mustn't 
think  they  are  like  ours  at  home,  splotched  here  and 
there  with  that  thin,  dry,  scaly  stuff.  Here,  in  the 
rainy  season,  they  are  swathed  in  it,  as  completely 
hidden  as  if  slipped  into  cases  of  —  I  was  going  to 
say  plush,  but  that's  too  smooth  and  shiny  for  this 
intricate  moss;  fashioned  of  millions  of  tiny, 
twisted,  curving  ferns,  it  looks  more  like  curled 
astrakhan  or  some  rich  fur. 

We  lifted  a  piece  of  the  White  Lady's  carpet, 
about  a  square  yard,  just  to  see  if  she  could  turn  it 
when  she  cleaned  house,  carefully  replacing  it,  you 
may  be  sure,  patting  down  the  edges  that  the  dese- 
cration might  not  be  noted,  and,  oh,  how  beautiful 
it  was,  Nell !  Nature  couldn't  make  a  lovelier  thing 
if  she  tried !  Heavy  as  a  fleece  of  wool,  so  deep  and 
so  soft,  as  luxurious  to  eye  and  touch  as  any  Persian 
prayer  rug. 

Now  you  are  saying,  "Katharine  doesn't  know 
a  blessed  thing  about  a  Persian  prayer  rug ! "  You 
are  mistaken.  Haven't  I  read  that  beautiful  poem 
of  Mr.  Aldrich's,  describing  his,  beginning  — 

I  207  ] 


JFrom  3n  Oregon 

"  Made  smooth  some  centuries  ago 

By  praying  Eastern  devotees, 
Blurred  by  those  dusky,  naked  feet, 
And  somewhat  worn  by  shuffling  knees 
In  Ispahan." 

Now  what  do  you  think?  And  that's  not  all.  I 
once  saw  one  with  my  own  eyes  at  the  World's 
Fair  in  Chicago,  guarded  by  a  red-turbaned,  saf- 
fron-tinted gentleman,  of  countenance  so  sinister  I 
thought  as  I  looked  at  him,  "My  Yellow  Peril, 
no  prayer  rug  is  ever  going  to  suffer  much  wear 
and  tear  through  your  devotional  exercises ! "  Now 
see  how  far  afield  I  am!  I  honestly  believe  an 
incredulous  friend  is  a  sharper  trial  than  a  thank- 
less child ! 

We  one  day  found  a  perfect  little  bracket  shelf, 
just  the  color  of  old  ivory,  its  outer  surface  all 
written  over  with  a  fine  tracery  of  sepia-tinted 
hieroglyphics.  We  half  feared,  as  we  pried  and 
pulled  it  from  the  tree,  that  we  were  carrying  off  a 
love  sonnet  in  secret  cipher  left  there  by  some 
forest-haunting  Orlando  of  the  hills  for  his  elusive 
Rosalind. 

This  was  Di's  find.  Not  long  ago  I  saw  it  in  her 
dining  room,  fastened  to  the  wall  and  holding  a 
little  squatty  brown  and  yellow  jug,  from  which 
trailed  two  or  three  pretty  nasturtium  vines,  with 
their  flaming  blossoms. 

[208] 


jftom  3n  ffl)tegon  Kancft 

Another  time  we  took  from  an  old  stump  a  most 
striking  facsimile  of  the  bust  of  Shakespeare.  It 
was  of  plastic  material,  much  like  paraffine  wax, 
only  cameo-tinted,  and  exquisite.  As  this  was  my 
discovery,  I  brought  it  home  and  gave  it  a  back- 
ground of  black  velvet. 

But  I  must  stop  this  rambling  talk,  and  I  will 
stop  right  now,  by  wishing  you  a  happy  Christmas 
and  a  glad  New  Year.  I  came  near  forgetting  it.  It 
is  hard  to  realize  the  nearness  of  the  holiday  season, 
when  one  lives  in  the  woods,  hearing  no  Christmas 
talk,  seeing  none  of  the  flutter  and  excitement  of  it, 
and  the  weather  so  far  from  Christmasy. 

For  several  days  dense  fogs  have  enveloped  the 
land.  Today  even  the  hills  are  blotted  out,  and  the 
fog  creeping  nigher  has  built  a  high  wall  of  gray 
around  yard  and  orchard  —  one  we  can  neither  see 
through  nor  over.  We  feel  like  castaways  on  some 
lonely  island,  with  the  vague  sea  about  us. 

And  yet  we  know  somewhere  beyond  this  gray- 
ness  Christmas  bells  are  ringing  and  Christmas 
carols  singing. 

You'll  keep  the  day  with  festal  cheer,  and  be  to- 
night in  a  whirl  of  festivity.  We'll  have  the  biggest, 
crackliest,  snappiest  Yule  log  we  can  find,  and  the 
brightest  blaze  a  Rochester  burner  can  produce  — 
and  then  what?  Why,  just  let  me  tell  you.  Three 
brand-new  books,  a  dozen  magazines,  sent  us  some 
weeks  ago  by  a  blessed  saint  and  kept  by  us  as  a 

[209] 


jFrom  3n  flDtegon 


special  treat  for  the  holiday  season!  I  can  hardly 
wait  till  night.  Just  to  think  of  those  new  books 
with  uncut  pages  gives  me  a  kindly  "  peace  on  earth, 
good  will  to  man"  feeling. 

Good-bye.    God  bless  us,  every  one  ! 


[210] 


DATE  DUE 


DEC-' 

71969 

-       r    - 

DECl 

7  RECT 

llil\ 

: 

our 

fj    1      VJU 

non  RFC'D 

AUG  2  5 

A  IIP  **  /    »n 

r          A  " 

Ub  24  c 

AI1P 

5      A., 

fi  1985  R 

ECD 

HUu 

.   v  - 

GAYLORD 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.  A. 

PS3537.T38F7  1916 


3  2106  00214  8226 


